Nightcrawler
by AnonymousLombax
Summary: A judge calls in a favor the Winchesters owe him, & the boys head to Iowa to investigate some suspicious activity. At first they believe it to be the ghost of a traumatized pregnant woman. But when has their job ever been easy? T  for swearing & blood
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N**_

Hey everybody, I'm back. I didn't promise another story, but here's one anyway. Hope everybody enjoys it.

-Lex

**NIGHTCRAWLER**

_Day 1:_

_Nightfall_

A terrified howl ripped through the night, chilling the hunters despite the balmy humidity of the Iowa evening. There was another scream, like that of a woman in labor, followed by foliage being crushed and the gut-wrenching sound of flesh being tackled to the ground.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned around to see Chet's deep blue eyes, clouded with exhaustion and pain, staring deep into his.

"Go. Go help your brother." _He__needs__you__more__than__we__do,_ were the unspoken words. "I'll cover you as best I can."

He glanced down at Chet's wounded leg, wondering if backup would do him any good at this point. They were dead, all of them. It was just a matter of time before the Nightcrawler killed them all. Maybe it would be better to go find his brother, die side by side like they always knew they would, and then let Chet and Donnie take their own last stand on their land, their terms, without the Winchesters there to louse up their luck. Donnie's lip trembled only slightly, hiding behind Chet and peering at him with the same soulful eyes as his older sibling. _Must__run__in__the__family._He mused carefully.

"Go." Chet gave him a kind, but firm shove toward the entrance of their temporary shelter, careful to avoid his injured shoulder. "We'll be fine. Your brother needs you."

He nodded, realizing that the silence was probably a very bad sign. Grabbing a flask and a sawed-off, he stuck his Glock into his belt and took off to find his wayward, most likely injured, brother.

**Ha ha! Just a teaser, folks. Next chapter is in the works…it will start at the beginning of the story. But I hate a bunch of prelude stuff, so I'm gonna make sure all that researching crap is to the point, and then get on with the adventure. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Hmm. Didn't realize that all my italics ran into each other. What is the deal with that? Hopefully this chapter will be better. **

**This first chapter isn't really in anybody's POV. The next chapters will be definitive as to whose POV it is written in. Savvy? I thought so. **

**Disclaimer: Do _you_see my wallet getting thicker? Answer: no. So I think we can all safely surmise that I don't own anything. At all. **

**OH! And a shoutout to my awesome reviewer FrostyGossamer, who did me a favor by signing up for story alerts. It's nice to have fans =)**

_**NIGHTCRAWLER**_

DAY 1: DAWN

_Straight out of hell_

_One of a kind_

_Stalking its victims_

_Don't look behind you, Nightcrawler_

_Beware the beast is black, Nightcrawler_

_You know he's coming back, Nightcrawler_

_-Nightcrawler,_ by **Judas****Priest**

"You wanna be…Jesse Farrell, or Scott Younger?"

"_American__Outlaws_? No WAY. No way, no way!" Dean slammed his hand into the steering wheel of the Impala, narrowly missing an accidental blare of the horn.

"What's wrong with it?"

"People will recognize it. I mean, Colin Farrell—Jesse James. Scott Caan, Cole Younger. _Way_too obvious."

Sam decided to let the fact that Dean knew the names of the actors slide. "So, what do you suggest?"

"I think we should be Rocky and Bullwinkle." Dean's eyes glinted in the afternoon sunlight.

"Oh yeah, _that__'__s_inconspicuous." Sam chanced a glance at Dean, waiting for the punch line. When Dean didn't give, Sam stared harder. "Seriously, dude? Who's who? Cuz if you're gonna say that—"

"I call Rocky."

"As in _Balboa?_" Sam huffed, eyeing Dean's cocky sideways grin. "You're unbelievable."

"Nope…just awesome. Awesome isn't unbelievable, bro, it's staring you in the face."

"Well, you know me, Dean. I gotta see it to believe it. Up close and personal."

"Ha ha. Don't let it bite ya."

"Yeah—well, I don't think Bullwinkle is gonna cut it." Sam tried to keep exasperation out of his voice.

"No, really?" Dean _tsked_. "Honestly, Sammy, what _were_you thinking? We talked about this. _Believable_aliases." Dean wagged a finger in Sam's face. "Gotta work on that."

Sam swatted the offending hand away. "Look at the road, man."

Dean glanced at the deserted highway, then tossed his hands up in a lazy shrug. "What's to see?"

"STEER!" Sam shrieked.

"First you want me to _look,_now you want me to _steer._Make up your mind, Samantha!"

"I'd rather you do both." Sam tried to keep from grinning. "But I'm serious, at least steer." Sam shook his head, bangs tangling a little as he did so.

"_This_thing?" Dean smirked, putting his hands behind his head and reclining a little in his seat. "This baby drives herself."

"Uh-huh." Sam watched for a few moments as Dean held the car steady with his knee, thinking back on when their father used to do that when the boys were in the back seat, settled down too low to notice that while his hands were visible, his knees were not—and his knees were always steering. Sam figured that Dean had always known, but played along for John and Sam's sake. _Dad__was__in__control__of__the__vehicle__at__all__times.__He__was__always__in__control__…_he stopped before his brain scrambled itself further and grabbed his brother's closest wrist, forcing the hand back to make contact with the wheel.

"Really man, you love this thing so much I'm surprised you can pry your hands off the wheel in the first place."

Dean whistled. "Low blow, Sammy."

"It's Sam."

"Nope. Today, it's S.K. I'm Rocky, you're S.K."

"What's that supposed to stand for?"

Dean eyed him mischievously, and for a moment, Sam wondered if he was going to regret having asked. "When you're that freakishly tall, bro, it doesn't _have_to stand for anything."

"Fine. If you want."

"And I do." Dean grinned again, as usual having taken no offense to any of Sam's jabs. "I got to pick the aliases, you wanna pick the music?" Dean waggled his eyebrows at Sam, who grinned, reaching for the preset button.

"From the _collection._" Dean clarified.

Sam gave a shake of his head. Again, un-be-_lieve-_able. He plucked one of Dean's less obtrusive Metallica tapes out of the box and popped it into the stereo.

After a few songs had played, the tape was changing sides. Dean's voice broke the temporary silence.

"It was cheaper to build around Jesse James."

"Huh?" Sam glanced up from his laptop.

"I can see your point, picking those aliases. We're kinda like outlaws."

_Really,__Dean?_"We kinda _are_outlaws, bro." Sam smirked.

"So remind me, then—why are we going to _court_?"

"I already told you. The judge hired us. It's like a hall pass, we get to go wherever we want in this town. But we have to pose as…dammit, I forgot. I'll pull up the email the next time we stop."

Dean shook his head, eying Sam.

"No, no. I _distinctly_remember you telling me 'I got us a gig, we're going to Iowa.' Then _I_said, 'there's nothing I wanna do in Iowa', and you kicked me. Then we got in the car, and—"

"—and here we are." Sam finished, not wanting Dean to narrate the past five hours of the road trip that they had both been present for.

"Yeah. So, give! I wanna know."

"You'll think it's stupid." Sam reasoned even as he was powering up his laptop.

"Stupid, Sammy? The last time I told you something was stupid was when…when…I can't remember." Dean huffed, finally getting a little annoyed.

_Good,_Sam smirked. _You__get__annoyed,__you__'__ll__shut__up__and__listen__to__your__music,__leaving__me__In__relative__peace.__Just__hurry__up__already._

Sam decided to put the final nail in the coffin. "It was yesterday, when I asked you why you didn't like Soundgarden."

"That recently?" Dean grinned. "Boy, my memory's gettin' worse."

"That would imply that you had one to begin with." Sam shot back, rueful that Dean hadn't taken his bait but had instead jumped right back into the fray.

"How 'bout we make a deal, Sammy?" Dean switched courses, trying to save himself some dignity. "You tell me _exactly_what we're doing heading to _Iowa_, and I'll tell you what S.K. means."

Sam hmmed slightly, thinking. "Deal."

"Ladies first, _Samantha.__" _Dean grinned.

Sam took the bait immediately, giving Dean no mercy. "Age before beauty."

"You suck." Dean reached for the volume dial, signaling the end of the conversation, deal or no deal.

"Wer'." Sam blurted before Dean's hand reached its destination.

Dean tipped his head. "Okay."

"Now it's your turn." Sam prompted. "Seriously, what does it mean?"

Dean huffed, muttered "Sas. Kwatch." under his breath, sealing the deal; and finished turning the radio up.

Admits his sudden attack of fits and giggles, Sam somehow couldn't find the heart to tell him that "Sasquatch" was spelled with a "q". Or that, even after the whole debacle, they probably wouldn't be needing aliases anyway.

The judge—Cason Schiff—was just a few inches smaller than Dean, but somehow managed to pull Sam into a tight bear hug anyway.

"Good to see you, boy." He grinned, slapping Sam heartily on the back. With a nod towards Dean, he raised an eyebrow. "Your brother?"

Sam nodded. "Dean. He hates formalities."

The judge retracted the hand he had extended to shake with Dean, and turned to flop unceremoniously into the plush chair behind his desk. He smoothed his Van Dyke thoughtfully as the boys took the chairs opposite him.

"So?" Dean prompted. Sam shot him a glare, which Dean ignored. If Schiff was put off by Dean's brusque behavior, he didn't let on.

"Sorry." Sam apologized. "We've been driving since about—" he checked his watch—"Ten, last night."

Schiff frowned. "_That_ can't be healthy."

"What of our lifestyle is." Dean huffed under his breath. Schiff shot him a curious glance. He'd met Sam only once, had lifted a sentence on the older Winchester that Sam didn't think his brother deserved; Schiff had acquiesced because, while he didn't know what the Winchester brothers had done, he knew that it had saved his town, and Dean had gotten arrested in the process, which was unjust however you looked through the glass…but he'd never had the privilege to meet Sam's famed hero. Now that he _had_ he wanted to know more.

"Save your questions for the after-party." Dean smirked.

"And Sam is the psychic?" Schiff shot back good-naturedly. Sam blushed a little and quickly changed the subject.

"It's a tree farm, you say?"

Schiff nodded, running a hand through his loose black hair. "Yeah…uh, a friend of mine owns it—Chet Wyman. And actually, it's a Christmas tree farm. Chet'll kill you if you call it anything but."

Dean frowned. "So…what, they actually _farm_Christmas trees?"

Schiff shot Dean another curious glance, to which Dean merely shrugged, and stood, beginning to meander about the judge's office. His prying green eyes settled on a picture on the bookshelf behind the judge's desk. It was of the judge, perhaps a few years ago, and a pretty young woman. The two looked happy—and were obviously close. Dean's guess was girlfriend, and he moved on to eye the rows of books—classic novels, surprisingly—that lined the shelves.

"—call the Wymans, let them know you're coming." The judge was saying when Dean finally decided to rejoin the conversation.

"Sounds great, thanks." Sam grinned, leaning over the desk to shake Schiff's hand.

"And the game plan is…?" Dean nudged Sam.

"Distracted much?" Sam huffed, eliciting a pearly white grin from Schiff. The man reminded Dean of a movie character he had seen, a mixture of two, actually—with his evenly trimmed Van Dyke contrasting loose, messy black hair that bore a prominent streak of grey above the right eyebrow. Dean made a mental note to ask Sam about that later.

Said judge simply continued grinning, as if he found Dean's behavior to be amusing. On the other hand, maybe he did.

"I was just telling your _little_ brother here that you could probably go check out the farm today, I know it's early but I know Chet will be there, Donnie too probably—I'll call them and let them know you're coming. They'll probably let you wander around a bit, but don't count on too many questions being answered. You're gonna have to do your own legwork on this one, sorry guys." Schiff shrugged apologetically.

"No worries." Dean grinned. "Our legs are used to it."

Schiff smirked a little at Dean's quirky comeback. "Great! Do you boys want a map—"

"Sure." Sam nodded before Dean had a chance to let Schiff know just exactly what he thought of having his directional prowess insulted.

The boys left the office in a polite hurry, thanking the judge for both his time, and for giving them something to do. The drive to the farm was quiet and relatively simple, aside from a trek up a muddy, ruddy, most likely _possessed_road that had Dean alternately cursing at, apologizing to, and finally, thanking his beloved Impala for her performance.

They pulled up to a cabin that advertised its role in guest administration and visitor information.

"Lights are off, door's locked…whadda ya think, Sammy?" Dean asked after perusing the perimeter of the building.

"I think it's closed." Sam smirked at his brother's lack of observation skills.

"And it took your college degree to figure that out?" Dean shot back, impatience already causing his mood to turn sour.

"No—just basic reading skills." Sam grinned, stifling giggles as he pointed to the 'Sorry, we're closed' sign that hung in the window.

Dean mumbled a word followed by "you" that suspiciously rhymed with "duck", causing Sam's grin to widen.

"How long has it been since we left Schiff's place?"

"You mean the _courthouse_?" Sam checked his watch. "Forty-five minutes, give or take a smidge."

"What do you consider a smidge?"

"Oh, stuff it, Dean."

Dean's grin told Sam that Dean had gotten the desired response. "So I think that's plenty of time for the judge to have called ahead, don't you?"

"Yeah, but _some_people have to live regular lives, Dean. Maybe the Wymans are busy." Sam huffed for what felt like the millionth time. "What I'm wondering though, is—it's mid-December, right? It's a Christmas tree farm…and it's a _Friday_. Shouldn't this place be really busy?"

Dean shrugged, scanning the immediate property. "The trees look really nice…but maybe people have gotten smart and realized that real trees are hazardous?"

"Not likely."

"That trees are hazardous?"

"That people got smart." Sam answered with a wry grin. "With all the idiots we encounter on a _daily_basis, what makes you think there are any smart people in the world?"

Dean released a long, fake sigh. "And I thought _you_were the humanitarian. Maybe it's cause it's, you know, HAUNTED. Hey Sam, ya think they'd mind us traipsing around a little? Just the immediate area…" He waved an arm in the general direction of the forest.

Sam's eyes bugged at Dean's suggestion of trespassing. "Didn't I see a 'violators will be prosecuted' sign somewhere around here?"

"Yeah, but we've got an open invitation." Dean waggled his eyebrows. Sam crossed his arms in response.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." Dean pointed to a sign at the far edge of the building, grinning triumphantly. "Use your "basic reading skills" and tell me what that says." Dean snarked. Sam squinted.

"Hunters welcome. Open season." Sam rolled his eyes as Dean clapped his hands together excitedly. "We're hunters! So…we're welcome."

"I think they meant _deer_hunters, Dean."

"Who's to say we're anything but."

"Like, everybody." Sam countered even as he began to follow Dean back to the Impala. "Dare I ask what you're doing, big bro?"

Dean ignored him. "Whadda ya think we need, huh? Salt? Flasks? Silver bullets?"

Sam resisted the urge to slam the trunk on his brothers itchy fingers. "We don't even know what we're up against—if anything! We haven't even talked to this…Wyman…guy yet."

Dean slammed the Impala's trunk hard enough to cause the car to sway. Crossing his arms, he _phwumped_against the fender, pouting.

"I can feel you rolling your eyes, Sammy."

"Maybe you should roll yours every once in a while, so you can stop feeling mine and start feeling your own."

The stare Sam received told him that he hadn't made much sense. But he had to admit, it _was_getting pretty boring just staring at the pine trees. Beautiful as they were, there were only so many times he could stand for calling his new "name the pine tree" game amusing.

"You think that's a Douglas Fir, Dean?" Sam asked when it was nearing lunch time.

"I don't really care Sam."

Sam turned to face his brother, who was currently sprawled out on the backseat of the Impala, bored out of his mind so badly that he had started counting faint, but still _horrifying_cracks in the leather of the seats. Sam didn't blame his brother for being bored; they'd been waiting for over an hour… but at least counting the cracks was quieter than belting out every Metallica song he had memorized (which was quite a collection) at top decibel.

"Is there something you'd like to talk about?" Sam tried to interest his brother's five-year-old-attention span.

"Yeah. The hunt. With Wyman. NOW." Dean made to stand up, just barely clearing his head and shoulders of the car frame as he did so. "Since when have we waited to talk to people before we started the research, anyway?"

"Since it was decidedly _owned_property that we'll be doing the research on."

"Always the rational one." Dean huffed in annoyance. "Well Sammy, I've always been the bad boy, and bad boys get bored, okay? We've been up since last night, we've been driving, we didn't stop for any food, and I just want to do _something._Okay?"

Sam bit his lip and stared hard into the distance, contemplating. His brother was _this__close_to getting on his knees and begging Sam to give him the car keys back so he could get some weapons out of the trunk and _get__going__already._When Sam had finally made up his mind, and turned to face his brother again, he realized that Dean had pulled out the big guns. For as much as the guy complained that Sam had the puppy eyes, the innocent look, the "you can't say no to THIS face" expression…Dean was a very, very close runner-up whenever he widened his deep green eyes, scrunched his brows, and pulled his bottom lip in just right.

"Please, Sam? I gotta find _something_to do, Sammy."

And Sam broke.

"Twenty minutes, Dean. Twenty minutes, and we haul ass back to the car, okay?"

Dean pulled out one of his mega-watt grins, yanking Sam into a quick—very quick—hug. "You're awesome bro. Keys?"

Sam begrudgingly handed the keys over, watching Dean pull various weaponry out of the trunk, not being able to shake the feeling that something was going to go horribly wrong.

**There it is! The first official chapter of _Nightcrawler._And yeah, in case you hadn't noticed, I got the title from the Judas Priest song—which, by the way—is an awesome song. So if you like it, drop a review! I don't live on feedback like some…but a little is nice, just so I know what the readers like and are looking forward to, so I can give them more of it. Stay tuned!**


	3. Chapter 3

**There's no excuse for my being late. OH except for the one LITTLE fact that I'm moving. FAR, far away. So chapters will come as my schedule allows. But I'll try and throw even a short one in so I never leave you guys hanging :D **

_**NIGHTCRAWLER**_

DAY 1: NOON

"_Black__thunder.__White__lightning__—"_

"Run out of Metallica?" Sam asked, rudely interrupting Dean. The older hunter paused the song long enough to shoot a withering glare in his younger brother's direction, then picked back up where he left off.

"_Speed__demons__cry__—__the__hell__pa__—" _

"Dean, would you _shut__up_already!" Sam burst out, _yet__again_effectively interrupting Dean's less-than-par rendition of one of his favorite Judas Priest songs. Dean switched the shotgun from his right shoulder to his left.

"I just started." Dean grumbled, shooting Sam a murderous glare.

"And it 'just started' driving me nuts." Sam readjusted his own shotgun and paused, scanning the clearing they had just entered.

"You smell something, bro?"

Dean grinned."Yeah, dude, did you forget to shower?"

"Worse than that." Sam scowled.

"Not rising to the bait, huh?"

"Not when bile's rising in my throat."

"TMI!" Dean exclaimed. "Not a visual I wanted right before lunch."

"What lunch." Sam dropped to his haunches, scrunching up his eyes in a calculating expression.

"Bro?" Dean followed Sam's lead, wondering if it were possible for Sam to catch something Dean had missed.

"I dunno—it's…not animal."

Dean sniffed the air. _Hmm.__Does__smell__kinda__funny.__Like__…__rotting__vegetables__or__something._"What kind of animals could be around here anyway?" Dean pried as he tramped around the clearing, trying to pick up a set of tracks. He hoped Sammy-the-sponge-brain would remember having read something about wildlife in the Iowa area.

"Um…" Sam stood, brushing off his jeans. "Deer—white tailed. Raccoons, possums…rabbits…"

"I'm talking big-game items, Sam."

"Oh! Whoops." Sam grinned sheepishly.

"You know, ones that could put out this much of a smell." Come to think of it, Dean was surprised he hadn't noticed the stench before Sam said something. Maybe he had been too engrossed with the sharp, beautifully acidic twang of the pine sap wafting through his senses. He was going to be pissed if the stench turned out to be a wayward skunk.

"Deer. Uh…some horses, if they're around. Cows. Coyotes. A stray cougar every once in a while, I guess…"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Get real, Sammy."

"Seriously! They've had cougars running around country farmland before." Sam defended. "And if you don't believe me—"

"Shh." Dean clapped a hand over Sam's runaway mouth. "Listen."

Sam shut up instantly and cocked his head, slapping Dean's hand away.

"Hear that?" Dean jerked his head toward a rumbling noise that appeared to be on the other side of a piney knoll, coming quickly towards the boys. The younger hunter nodded, and Dean caught his eyes.

"Weapons. Cover. NOW."

The hunters dove into the pine trees, wishing they had experienced the forethought to remember that birds were nesting in the pines. Birds that instantly took flight the moment the hunters encroached upon their territory.

"Crap!" Dean huffed. He was just about to classify the rumbling as an engine when it suddenly was cut, shrouding the woods in silence.

"This is about the best-smelling hideout I can remember." Sam muttered randomly, earning himself one of Dean's elbows in his ribs. Ok, so the pines _did_smell pretty good.

"Should we check it out?" Dean peeked out from the cover of the pines, trying to see something around the webbed veil of prickly needles.

Sam shrugged. "We are on their property."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. We'd better go."

"Think we have time to get back to the car?"

"No way." Dean emerged from the cover of the trees, shotgun level at his waist, creeping forward with the prowess of a cat. Sam followed him, keeping a peripheral eye on their rear to be sure that no one flanked them.

"My guess is ATV." Dean threw over his shoulder, knowing Sam would hear him despite the low tone he was using.

"Mine too. Maybe we should just announce ours—"

"CHRIS? LUKE?" A loud shout broke the quiet.

The hunters dropped to a defensive crouch, simultaneously bringing shotguns to bear on a figure that had just topped the hill.

"Holy crap." Dean swallowed as he realized that the newcomer had a shotgun trained on them as well.

"Hey, whoa!" Sam dropped his gun instinctively, and Dean hissed at him to pick it back up.

"The chick's got a _gun,_Dean! And we're on her turf!"

"Yeah? And we've got two. Keep. It. UP!"

Sam reached for his weapon tentatively, keeping his eyes on the woman at all times. Dean readjusted his grip just as he heard the shotgun blast crack through the crisp air. Before he could react, Sam dropped, disappearing from Dean's peripherals.

"_SAM!__" _Dean flicked the safety off of his shotgun, ready to retaliate for whatever the woman had done to his brother. Neutralize the threat, check Sammy immediately after. The chambering of another round stopped him short as he realized that the cartridge ejected wasn't normal buckshot.

"Uh-uh, boy. Stay put. I figured the big one was smarter. So keep what brains you have in your skull where they belong, and drop it."

The woman's voice was a little rough, a little deep, but it seemed natural, not tobacco induced like so many women Dean had met in his life.

"What's to say I don't just shoot you?" Dean challenged coldly, just wanting to get this OVER with so he could check on Sammy.

"Because your rounds are live."

"Duh." For some reason, Dean couldn't think of a snarky retort for that. Because, aside from salt rounds, who wouldn't use live ammunition?

The woman frowned, turning the features that weren't covered by a knit cap into a slightly scrunched up expression. Her steel blue eyes hardened. "Go ahead—check your friend. I didn't kill him, but you two did ask for it. I mean, can't you read the signs? Violators will be prosecuted."

"Yeah, prosecuted. Not SHOT!" Dean protested.

"Potato, tomato." The woman waved her gloved hand dismissively. "I have no proof to prosecute if I can't subdue the threat." She pulled a round out of her shotgun. "You'll find that rubber buckshot works quite well for temporarily detaining a problem."

"So he's not hurt."

"No, but considering that neither of you are Chris OR Luke, you'd better be happy he isn't." The woman stepped toward Dean, glancing over her shoulder now and then. "Is it just the two of you?"

Dean nodded, still eyeing the gun.

"Well, Cold Pines is closed to visitors. Who are you guys?"

"Ah, so that's what the CP on the gate stood for. But what do you mean by closed? Like, for lunch hour, closed?" Dean tried ignoring the question.

"I said, who are you."

"Jerry Gallagher, the man you downed here is my partner Tom Flynn." _Tom__and__Jerry__aliases,_Dean thought as the lie rolled smoothly off his tongue. "We work for the National Forestry Investigation Services."

"NFIS?" She shook her head. "Never heard of them. Besides, I coulda sworn you called your friend 'Sam'."

_Busted._"Really? I—"

"Hold up!" she raised a palm, quirking an eyebrow in thought. "Sam…Winchester?" Her face registered recognition. "You're Dean."

Dean wasn't sure what to say to that. Play along? Or not?

"So you're a Wyman? Chet Wyman?" Was it possible Chet could be a girl's name?

"Yeah—uh…Chestnut. Chestnut Wyman. The judge called, said you'd be coming to ask a few questions. He hoped you could help figure out…oh. OH! Damn. I'm so, SO sorry!" the words were suddenly gushing from her lips, placing a apologetic hand on Dean's arm as she glanced at Sam. "I knew you were coming—I didn't realize…"

"Yeah, we kinda just got a head start on the investigation." Dean frowned as a low groan stopped him from saying anything more. He glanced at his brother, pale and shivering against the snowy ground. He dropped to his knees beside his brother, trying to ignore how close "Cold Oaks" and "Cold Pines" could become, concentrated on rousing his brother instead of letting the nagging fear overtake him. Dean palmed Sam's forehead, felt his scalp for lumps.

"I hit his shoulder." The woman said quietly.

Dean moved his ministrations downward, finding warm crimson liquid on his fingers when he pulled them back. He fingered the trickle of blood that was slowly seeping from the muscle between Sam's neck and shoulder.

"I thought you said you didn't hurt him."

The woman sighed, kneeling down opposite Dean. "Not critically, no. These are police-grade riot rounds. Meant to knock the wind out of a target, but usually they fall unconscious once their head meets the pavement. Obviously your friend is no exception."

Dean cringed, narrowing his eyes. "So how do you explain the blood, hmm?"

"The round probably broke the skin when it impacted him. I aimed for his shoulder, it would have been covered by the jacket—but he moved."

Sam emitted another long, low groan. His eyes tracked rapidly back and forth underneath of closed, trembling lids.

"He's coming around." She knuckled Sam's stomach. The reaction was instantaneous. Sam came up swinging, giant fist nearly coming in contact with the woman's temple. And it would have if Dean had not intercepted the punch, grabbing Sam's fist in his own.

"Hey there, bro." he put a hand on Sam's shaking shoulder. "You're okay, you're alright—don't hit the lady, we don't need assault added to the trespassing charges."

The woman watched as Sam immediately calmed beneath his brother's touch. If Dean said everything was alright, well then, dammit, it outta be.

"Hey Sam." She ventured.

"Wha—she…" Sam trailed off, looking at Dean questioningly. The words he couldn't say were clearly conveyed in his eyes. 'She shot me, Dean!'

Dean grinned at his confused brother. "She was just protecting her territory, Sammy."

"It's Sam." He growled.

Dean snickered. "Oh yeah, he's fine!"

"Great. Do you want to clean his shoulder here— I could get you guys a ride back to the cabin too. Or, you can start your investigation right away if you want…" She trailed off, leaving their options open.

"I'm fi—" Sam started before Dean cut him off in a negative.

"Nuh-uh. I could use some lunch before we get started—Mr. Stomach the Small over here might not be hungry, but I'm starved…"

"So subtle." She rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll feed you. But only because the judge asked me to be VERY nice—and I'm afraid we've already gotten off on a terrible foot."

Lunch was small, short, and fairly quiet; consisting of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup that their host cooked up for the brothers. Sam had asked to meet Chet Wyman, whom he presumed owned the tree farm. Dean had gotten a blast out of seeing Sam blush bright red with embarrassment as the woman clarified that _she_was Chet—Chestnut—Wyman. Dean had had his suspicions, having recognized her from the picture at the judge's office, but had had enough good sense to keep his increasingly large mouth shut.

Now the brothers were settled onto a Snow Cat ATV, with Dean driving and Sam clinging tightly to his brother's torso for dear life, while they followed Chet and Donnie into the depths of the forested farm.

"How much longer, you think?" Sam called into Dean's ear. Even though Sam's mouth was right next to his head, the wind carried his words backwards, and Dean had to strain to understand him.

"Your butt getting sore, princess?"

"Headache." Sam said simply. "Jostling hurts."

_Oh._Wonderful. Couldn't he have popped some Aspirin while they were at the cabin, or something? As it was, Chet had said she could only give them a tour of the land today, and if they wanted to do more then they were on their own with merely a "dossier" of her collected findings, newspaper articles, and information the judge had managed to get for her. Fun times were ahead, for sure. But as he glanced at the gathering clouds, Dean found himself hoping, no, _wishing_that the job would be a simple salt and burn so they could be on their way before the weather decided to dump its discarded moisture on the unfortunate Winchesters.


	4. Chapter 4

***drum roll* Finally, some action. Thanks for the reviews, people :D **

**NIGHTCRAWLER**

DAY 1: AFTERNOON

The tour didn't last long, and for that Sam was grateful. The headache he was experiencing had magically transformed into a full-blown migraine in the course of a couple of minutes, and his shoulder pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Not to mention, the sky looked as if it were about to release a blanket of fat wet flakes onto the brothers _just_to get them wet and cold. What a crappy way to start a hunt!

"So you guys will be ok, yeah?" Chet was saying.

Dean nodded, eager to get started. Chet handed both hunters a walkie-talkie.

"Keep those with you, I'll use it if I need to get a hold of you, and vice versa."

The brothers clipped the radios to their belt. "Anything else?" Sam tried to keep a whine out of his voice. He didn't really understand how they were supposed to accomplish the hunt with little to no information anyway.

Chet bit her lip in thought. "I'd suggest you try and make it back before dark."

"Which would be…?" Sam prompted.

"In a coupla hours." Dean guessed, glancing at the sky. "We'd better scram."

"Can we keep the ATV with us?" Sam asked hopefully.

She rolled her eyes. "No, I was gonna make you trek back to the cabin all wet and tired. Of _course_I'll let you use it. The judge said "anything they need"…" She shrugged. "Dinner's at six, you can stay here until the weather clears if you need. Got it?"

Dean nodded affirmatively. "Sure thing babe."

"You itchin' to get a sore shoulder like your brother?" Chet's voice dropped a little, her tone matching the chill in the air.

Dean's lip twitched slightly. "Well when you put it like _that_…"

"I figured you were smarter than you looked." Chet grinned, straddling her ATV. With one last look at the hunters, she gunned the engine. "Be careful."

Sam tugged Dean toward him before the older hunter could shout a snarky reply.

"She reminds me of Bobby." Dean grouched, yanking his arm out of Sam's grasp.

Sam quirked a brow.

"I mean, she's growly, witty, wears jeans and flannel, is probably just a big teddy bear—"

"Threatens men with shotguns…" Sam grinned. "Kinda fits the hermit hunter profile! Just throw a beard and sixty extra pounds on her, and we'll call it good."

"NOT an image I wanted floating around my noggin…" Dean gagged lightly. He shouldered his shotgun, signaling that he was ready to get to work. Sam couldn't be happier as he yanked the crumpled map out of Dean's back pocket. The older hunter yelped and scrambled away, muttering something about "personal space". The map in itself was pretty useless—it merely documented different tree lots across the property. He frowned, turning the map a few different directions to optimize his readability. Dean, having apparently forgiven Sam for encroaching on his rear, peered over Sam's arm, being too short to peer over his shoulder.

"What are all those little numbers for?"

Sam fought to keep the map steady in the gusting wind. "Uh…they're pretty close together. I'm guessing the trees are numbered…according to lot and type, I think." Sam didn't need to see Dean's face to know that his brother was pondering that.

"And the red circles?"

Sam scanned the legend Chet had drawn for them. "Those mark the radius of the areas that the victims had allegedly been inside of when they went missing."

"Simple enough." Dean muttered.

"Which is why you had to ask about it."

"Shaddup and tell me where we're headed."

Sam fought against an eye roll and pointed what he hoped was west. "That way. The direction of the first disappearance."

Dean nodded. "ATV or foot?"

"We can hoof it."

A half hour later, Sam regretted his decision to "hoof it". The pressure in his head was increasing, the wind was making funny noises, and he could swear he had felt a raindrop splat onto his head a few moments ago. He had gotten so fed up with hiking—all the trees looked the same, it was impossible to determine which swath of ground they had covered and which they had not. His directions weren't making enough sense for Dean to follow them, and Sam had no intentions of leading their little search party himself. Dean was the leader, simple as that. Sam had finally folded the map into a disgusted paper airplane and flung it at Dean's head, flopping to the ground before the plane hit its intended target in the back.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean griped as he snatched the airplane from midair before it could hit the ground. Sam's only response was to remain stoically silent, staring at the forest ahead of him.

"You're bored, I get it. This sucks. The map is screwy and you can't read it—why can't you just admit it? You didn't have to throw it at me!"

Sam rolled his head to face Dean. "Pleeaaase use your inside voice, man."

"Use my—" Dean scowled. "Baby."

"Jerk."

"Bit—" Dean was interrupted by a nails-on-chalkboard screech that howled through the forest, penetrating the hazy smog that was clouding Sam's brain. It drove right to the core of his head, the center of his pain, and before Sam knew it he was writhing on the snowy ground, hands clasped over his ears in a futile attempt to block needles of icy pain. Dean toppled to the ground next to him, but balanced on his hands and knees. The scream carried on for what seemed like forever, the only signs that told Sam Dean was in almost as much pain was the way Dean's eyes were watering, scrunched up at the corners, and he held his jaw in a tight, stoic clench.

"Sammy!"

Dean pried Sam's hands away from his ears. He turned Sam's head from side to side gently, obviously pleased to see that his little brother's ears weren't bleeding. The scream slowly faded, dying down until it blended itself into the cold whispers of the winter wind.

"What the hell was that?" Dean's eyes darted around, his hand remaining on Sam's shoulder; firm, grounding.

"Dunno, but it sucked." Sam muttered breathlessly.

"Yeah, ten ways to Sunday. Y'okay?"

Sam nodded carefully. The lack of nausea that usually accompanied the action told Sam that the migraine was being held at bay for now—but he was kinda creeped that the pain had escalated, only to recede after the blood-curdling scream had finally died away. Sam knew enough about the business to know that there was hardly such a thing as coincidence—but he didn't feel the need to worry Dean just yet. If it happened again, then he would tell him.

Dean stood, holding a hand out to help Sam up. "C'mon bro—I think we can get to the first site and check it out before dark."

"You seriously wanna stay out here with…" _With__what_? With a scream? That would sound pretty lame.

"With that thing?" Dean finished. "It's probably just one of those fuzzy coyotes you were talking about."

Sam eyed Dean's cocky smirk. "Yeah, sure. A fuzzy coyote. You think if we find it, we can keep it?"

Dean didn't merit that comment with a remark. He had his nose buried into the now slightly damp map, tipping it in hopes that the waxy surface would catch the waning light.

"If I got this right—" he glanced up, "we head that way."

Sam followed Dean's gaze. "Seriously? Down a dark, creepy hall of pines."

"Put a leash on that imagination of yours, would ya Sammy?" But the look in Dean's eyes didn't match his condescending tone. Dean might think his walls were up, but Sam could tell by the way his dark brows furrowed just so, and the way he quirked his mouth just slightly to the right, that he was having just as many doubts about the hunt as Sam did.

"Deeeaaan." Sam moaned as the older hunter folded the map, stuffing it into his inside jacket pocket as he headed for the "creepy hall of pines". "Dean, people have _disappeared._I don't know what that word means to you, but so far they haven't come back. There's not a trace of them left behind—just poof, gone."

"What are we, Sam? Boy scouts, scared of a little trek into the woods at dusk?"

"Be serious! We're not going to find anything in this light anyway."

"Sam…"

"And the scream?"

"What, our fuzzy coyote friend?"

"It sounded like a woman in labor."

"Okay, so it's a fuzzy _pregnant_coyote." Dean's face lit up. "Hey, maybe we can keep one of her puppies!"

"DEAN!" Sam couldn't help his voice raising a few decibel levels, trying to battle against the sudden lightheadedness he was experiencing. "Can't you stop acting like an idiot for TWO seconds? Screams like that come from cougars, panthers—big, DANGEROUS cats like that. And you want to traipse around in the dark at feeding time, when it's most likely just woken up? We're armed with _shotguns_Dean, not big game rifles—"

"SAM!" Dean grabbed his brothers' shoulders. "It's a hundred feet. One. _Hundred._ Feetdown the "dark, creepy hall of pines", I swear that's it."

Sam took a deep breath as Dean released Sam and looked down, both men slightly shaken by Sam's sudden outburst.

"I didn't mean to yell at you, De." Sam whispered. His older brother's head snapped up, emerald eyes probing deep into chocolate, eyebrows raised to the spiked blond hairline at the use of Sam's childhood nickname for his brother.

Dean frowned, then clapped a chilly hand on the back of Sam's neck. "I know ya didn't, ya little bitch."

It got both men to smirk—but the concerned look that Dean thought he was hiding stayed for a few seconds longer than Sam thought it should have.

"So…" Sam prompted.

"So maybe we start heading back now."

"Not just because I—" _Because__I__'__m__scared._He didn't have to speak the words for Dean to know what he meant. Just because Dean was a fearless hunter, that didn't mean Sam was.

"Yes, because you, Samantha." Dean grinned. "_Anything_for you, darling."

Sam rolled his eyes, feeling heat rush to his cheeks and he looked away quickly. Anyone else might think their relationship—the constant nagging, jabbing, insults and name calling—they might think it weird, and sometimes…well…_gay_even. But deep down, Sam knew it was just a way of hiding the unconditional love that many siblings shared from the general public. Hiding it from the public with a code that only the Winchesters understood, that only the two brothers could use to communicate. And if that code happened to entail replacing birth names with "bitch" and "jerk", then so be it. Sam wouldn't trade it for a _houseful_of loving, caring, touchy-feely siblings.

"Well, we came from that direction." Dean was saying.

"Huh?"

Dean glanced at him, concern flashing through his green eyes once again. "Where've you been."

"Hmm? Oh, inside my head, I guess."

"Yeah, that's what worried me." Dean frowned. "You sure you're feeling okay, Sammy?"

"It's SAM, Dean, and yeah, I'm fine."

"Suit yourself." Dean tugged him in the direction of the ATV, which Sam was sure would end up being farther away than either of them thought. They had only abandoned it in favor of being able to communicate easier without the added racket of the engine on top of the crappy weather. _And__because__you__were__the__genius__who__said__we__could__ "__hoof__it__"__,_Sam reminded himself. Dean was leading the way again, and he seemed sure of where he was headed. He had picked up his cocky swagger again—despite the fact that no one was within a close enough proximity to see or care—and he was whistling happily. Unfortunately, Sam recognized the tune. He also knew the words. Now it was stuck in his head—and probably would be for a good, long time. _Jingle_ _Bells_, he thought vehemently. He could almost block out his brother's whistling…but then Dean started singing and Sam knew he was doomed.

"Jingle bells,

Casper smells,

Sammy ganked his ass!

A burst of smoke,

A tan trench coat,

And now we're missing Cas!"

"Oh god, Dean. Really?" but Sam was having a hard time containing his snickering. "You're insinuating that I ganked Castiel?"

"I didn't say anything about you sinning."

"., Dean. Insinuating. It means to imply."

"Oh really? Huh. Didn't know that. Well, ya learn something new every day!" Dean chirped.

Suddenly Dean threw an arm across Sam's chest, halting their progress.

"Dean?"

"Somebody's not happy that we're here." Dean said quietly.

"They usually aren't—" Sam stopped when he set his eyes on what Dean was seeing. The ATV was lying in pieces, scattered about the snowy ground where they had left it earlier. Not in "disassembled" pieces; but rather in "torn limb from limb" pieces…if an ATV were to have limbs, anyway. "You think the ghost did this?"

"Whatever did it, it's here, it's close, and it's angry." Dean growled, bringing his shotgun to bear. The hunters cleared the immediate vicinity, aside from the ruined four-wheeler, there seemed to be nothing that the men could use to track the attacker. That led Sam to continue believing that they were dealing with a ghost—perhaps a pregnant ghost, from the sound of her screams—but with the way Dean continued prowling about the site long after Sam had gotten tired, bored, and given up—well, it didn't take a rocket scientist _or_a college degree to figure out that Dean was far from convinced.

The scream that rose once more out of the wind did nothing to calm his frayed nerves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Aaagh here is another late update. Sorry people. Meant to get this up before Thanksgiving but…well, that came and went.**

**BTW for anyone interested; the lyrics Dean was singing a few chapters ago were from the song "Hell Patrol" by Judas Priest.**

**And the BOLD quotes imply dialogue from the other side of the radio, i.e. Sam and Dean talking to Chet. I would have rather put it in italics, but those run together for some reason.**

**NIGHTCRAWLER**

DAY 1: EVENING

Chet had just set a steaming helping of meatloaf and potatoes in front of her younger brother Donnie when her two-way radio crackled.

"**Chet?****Come****in****Chet**…"

She scrambled for the handset, sending a stirring spoon and two plates clattering noisily to the hardwood floor in the process.

"Yeah, it's me."

The person on the other end emitted a sigh of relief. "**Great,****good.****You****okay?****" **

"Uh-huh…." Chet glanced at Donnie, who had forgone dinner to come stand by her to get a better listen.

"**The****ATV,****it****'****s****a****mess.****We****'****re****not****going****anywhere****on****it****—"**

"Sam or Dean? Who am I speaking to?" Chet shoved Donnie away a little, him being pressed up so close to her ear was making her feel cramped.

"**Sam—it's me, Sam. Something…whatever took those people, it tore your ATV apart, it's a wreck." **

"Yeah, I got that. Are you guys alright?"

"**Sure,****yeah,****we****'****re****fine****for****now.****Freezing****our****asses****off,****but****fine.****Anyway,****look****—****Dean****is****convinced****he****can****track****this****thing.****I****dunno****how,****but****he****'****s****the****expert.****I****'****m****not****sure****we****'****ll****be****able****to****—"**

There was crackling on the other end of the line, and Chet was tempted to try and get Sam to talk again. Then Dean's voice came through, and Chet realized she had just witnessed the condensed version of the brother's war over the mic, and stifled a laugh.

"**Chet?****We****'****ll****be****fine.****I****can****track****this****fugly,****I****don****'****t****know****what****crap****Sam****'****s****been****feeding****you.****The****important****thing****is****that****We**_**.**___**Are**_**.**___**Fine**_**.**_**A****little****cold****never****stopped****the****mighty****Winchesters,**** '****kay?****In****any****event****that****we****don****'****t****come****back****to****the****cabin****before****midnight,****don****'****t****panic,****and****more****importantly,****DON****'****T****come****after****us,****ya****got****that?****"**

Chet nodded, then remembered Dean couldn't see her. "Yeah, sure, don't panic and don't come after you."

"**Good girl—"**

"**If we're not back by midnight, PANIC!" **

Chet laughed this time—Sam had to have yelled the last part, and probably right next to his brother's ear too. Jeez, she wasn't sure how the boys had managed to die at the hands of others (so how were they alive, anyway…?) but hadn't yet killed each other. Sure, it was all hearsay, but it sounded kinda hinky to her.

"**And****you****wonder****why****I****call****you****a****bitc****—" **The line broke just as suddenly as the conversation had started. Nothing but static met Chet's ear as she tried again and again to raise the brothers.

"Weather?" Donnie asked quietly. He had returned to his meatloaf, but he didn't seem too interested in it. Chet shook her head. Bad weather would be coming—snow, most likely—but that was hopefully a good hour or two away.

"I don't really like them." Donnie continued around a mouthful of food. "They're mean."

"Yeah, but they're hunters, and they're alive. What can we expect?" Chet dished herself a helping of dinner as well, but her mind was nowhere near her food.

"But we've met plenty of nice old hunters!" Donnie spat indignantly. Chet had a hard time remembering that it was his teenage hormones, and not his own nature, that led him to believe he automatically knew all there was to know about anything.

"Those were animal hunters, Donnie."

"So that makes these guys what, head hunters? Bounty hunters? We're letting criminals traipse around?"

Chet shoveled a forkful of potatoes into her mouth, trying to resist the urge to either a) lash out at the indignant young man, or b) slam his head into the table to knock some sense into him. She settled instead for calmly chewing, swallowing, and taking a few gulps of milk before answering him.

"I told you buddy, we have to accept the fact that…whatever we're dealing with; it might not be…uh…normal."

"So that makes it paranormal, out of the ordinary…not so bad." Donnie frowned, knowing there was something his sister wasn't telling him. He swallowed, the worry etched into his young, but handsome features clear. "You're not saying it's…"

_So__the__kid__does__know._Chet added a frown of her own. _Damn__him__and__his__stupid__books._"Supernatural?" Chet finished. Donnie looked down at his plate.

"Yeah, that."

"If Cason went to the trouble to track these guys down and drag them out here…" She left the sentence hanging.

"They're _so_hard to find…"

"They're federal fugitives, Donnie. Actually, more than _one_of their aliases are on the CIA _and_the FBI's Most Wanted list."

"Then we're in a shitload of trouble."

"Donnie!"

"Five dollars into the cuss jar, I know."

Chet swore she saw a smirk on her brother's face.

"So if Cason drug federal, wanted fugitives out to _our_little tree farm, then we're in a BOATload of trouble."

"Better, but you can drop the sarcastic grin."

"Learned from the best." Donnie snarked, shoveling the last of his meatloaf down his throat. Chet followed suit—in a more polite fashion—and sent up a quick prayer that the those two strange hunters would be alright.

"You think we should call Chet?" Sam asked after he'd watched Dean circle the disaster site for the thousandth time.

"Nah, no need to worry her."

"Does she really look the type to worry?"

Dean spared a knowing glance in Sam's direction. "She had 'certified worry wart' written all over her face, genius."

"Genius? I'm not the one chasing my tail around a trail that's quickly growing cold."

"Precisely why I'm calling you the genius."

GEEZ, the guy knew how to push people's buttons! Sam frowned, rubbing his forehead. His headache was returning with full force, and he was really looking forward to a hot shower, a bed, and maybe spending a few minutes in front of that majestic fireplace he'd seen in Chet's cabin—and not necessarily in that order.

"We should probably call Chet and let her know the ATV is wrecked, though."

"I—" Sam huffed. Whatever. If Dean wanted calling Chet to be his idea, then fine. That wasn't a war Sam cared to start right now. "I can do it." Sam finished, knowing how Dean hated teaser words.

"Okay, Sammy."

What? Okay? Already? No fight about who got to talk to the hot chick on a walkie-talkie? Sam chanced a glance over at his brother and was startled to see just how exhausted Dean looked. His spiky hair was flat in a few places. Dark circles sat underneath tired eyes, accentuating his red, wind-flushed cheeks. His lips were chapped as well, the blasted arctic breezes doing wonders for their skin, and his hands were shoved deep into his jeans pockets.

Sam realized that he probably shouldn't scrutinize his brother any harder, he'd started at him as long as he dared, and was most likely no better off. In fact, he would bet money on the fact that Sam probably was a mirror image of Dean, they usually were even despite their differences.

It was when Dean dug the radio out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Sam that the younger hunter wondered if it was maybe something else, though. Sam reached a shivering hand out to take the radio from Dean. His older brother's hand wasn't even trembling, and Sam envied the fact that his brother wasn't affected by the cold. Their fingers brushed and even the slight contact of Dean's icy fingers on his made Sam nearly hiss in surprise. He pressed his free hand under his jackets to warm up, wishing his body would stop shivering for just _one__minute_so his muscles could have a break. For crying out loud, his _brother_wasn't, so why did he have to shiver? _Or__more__importantly,__why__**wasn**__**'**__**t**____Dean?_

So either Dean truly wasn't affected by the cold, or…Sam shuddered. Or he was so cold that his body was past the point of being able to even try to ward off the chill.

"You okay, Dean?"

Dean shot him a withering look. "And I was calling Chet the worry wart." He grumbled, stalking back to the ATV. Sam merited him another huff and contacted Chet.

Dean tromped toward the ATV, hearing his brother's voice updating Chet on their current predicament. He glanced back at Sam when the younger man was looking away. The poor kid was so cold he was shivering constantly. His teeth clanked together so loudly that Dean was afraid he'd break, or at least chip, the enamel on them. For being such a giant, Sammy was a whimp! Here Sam was, in a thermal shirt, t-shirt, two hoodies, and a Carhart jacket, shivering like he'd just been hugged by the great Frosty the Snowman himself—and Dean was wearing half that, and wasn't even cold! He'd zipped his leather jacket up an hour or so ago to ward off the chill of the wind, but after his fingers had numbed thoroughly, Dean hadn't really noticed any change. Huh. Somewhere in the back of his mind, that clicked as being _clinically__wrong,_but chose not to dwell on it. He could see Sam talking into the radio still; his younger brother had his "feeding someone crap" face on. He wore that face whenever he was trying to imply that they were fully capable hunters, but Dean was onto something that Sam didn't wholeheartedly agree with. Dean rolled his eyes and sprinted over, snatching the handset from the surprised hunter.

"Chet? We'll be fine. I can track this fugly, I don't know what crap Sam's been feeding you. The important thing is that We. Are. Fine. A little cold never stopped the mighty Winchesters, 'kay?" He smirked. "In any event that we don't come back to the cabin before midnight" _do__what?__Call__the__cops?__Right._"Don't panic, and more importantly, DON'T come after us, ya got that?"

There was silence on the line, then Chet's voice again.

"**Yeah,****sure,****don****'****t****panic****and****don****'****t****come****after****you.****" **

"Good girl—" Dean began as Sam butted his head in toward the mic.

"If we're not back by midnight, PANIC!"

Chet laughed and Dean swiped a hand at his brother's jaw, momentarily forgetting to let up on the radio switch.

"And you wonder why I call you a bitc**—" **Sam dropped to the ground before Dean could finish his sentence. Dean followed his brother to the ground, just managing to catch his palm under the back of Sam's head before it came in contact with the cold earth. He put numb fingers to his brother's neck, radio dropped to the ground and forgotten as his heart stopped cold. _No__pulse.__No__PULSE!_ He put his cheek to his brother's mouth, almost sobbing with relief as he felt hot puffs of expelled air caressing his chilled skin. Right. Numb fingers can't feel a pulse. Dean sighed—maybe he was colder than he thought. Sam was right, he could be such an idiot sometimes.

"Sammy? Second time you've dropped today, dude. You gotta stop doing this to me."

Sam groaned in response, blinking up at Dean in confusion. "Wha—Dean?"

"Yeah, bro."

"I saw something…I…"

"What Sam?" Dean helped his brother into a sitting position, keeping a hand on his shoulder as the dizziness passed. "What'd ya see?"

Sam's hazel eyes flickered back and forth and the man swallowed thickly. "It scared me, Dean."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I got that. But Sammy, this is important. What. Did. You. See?"

Sam closed his eyes, shoulder leaning into his brother's hand. "That's just it, bro. I dunno what it was…that's what scared me. It looked like…a…cat, maybe?"

Sam seemed very unsure of himself and Dean sat back on his heels with a huff. "Well, I'll be a squirrel in a dress. A cat, Sammy. A freakin' CAT?"

Sam frowned, covering his ears. "Too loud, Dean. And be careful, you're sounding like Bobby again."

"What kinda cat?"

"It was probably nothing. Never mind."

"You fainted, dude. That's not nothing."

Sam sighed, struggling to his feet. "It's embarrassing, that's what it is. Can we leave it at that?"

Dean held his hands out in a placating manner. "Fine. But if big ol' mittens shows up again, let me know and I'll shoot it for you, ya poor damsel." Sam responded by thwacking a gigantic hand upside of Dean's skull.

"So, do you think your kitty tore our ATV apart?"

"Drop it, Dean."

The older hunter just shrugged and shouldered his shotgun. "I say we got a coupla minutes of useable light left in the day, right?"

"Sure."

"I'll see how far I can get us, we mark the area, and come back tomorrow. Sound like a plan?"

"You have a plan? Amazing."

"Not as dumb as I look, Sammy."

"Who woulda thunk."

"So mean! And I thought you loved me." Dean sniffled, jutting his lower lip out. Sam stifled a laugh and nudged his brother's shoulder.

"Drama queen."

Dean grinned, squaring his shoulders. "Well, this queen has a kingdom to protect. Forward march, noble footman!"

"I should have kept my mouth shut." Sam groaned. "Hey bro, you haven't forgotten that this is big game feeding time, right?"

"Nope."

"Got your knife?"

"Yup."

"Shotgun?"

"Can't you see it, or have you gone blind."

"Okay, duh. Holy water?"

Sam was rewarded with Dean's silence.

"_Holy__water.__" _Sam tried again, more slowly this time.

"Uh…" Dean worked his jaw back and forth for a moment. "Well, technically—"

"Dean! Don't tell me you forgot it!"

"No!" Dean reached into his jacket pocket. "No, I have it, it's just…well, it's shit."

"It's not shit, Dean."

"Is too! See? Frozen solid." Dean shook the flask for added affect.

"Oh. Shit."

"Exactly." Dean pocketed the flask and squinted in the waning light, ignoring Sam's drilling questions for a moment. Until now, he had been following these odd brush marks in the snowy grass, brush marks that gave the appearance of someone dragging a pine bough—a pine bough the size of a small sedan—behind them in order to sweep away their tracks. Of course, only amateurs did that anymore; it left just as clear of a trail to an average tracker as actual tracks. But now the tracks had stopped, just as suddenly as they had started. He frowned, jamming his hands into his pockets as he stood to survey the area.

It wasn't much different than the rest of the farm—except for a steep drop-off that overlooked a small stream that was nearly frozen, tell-tale bubbles rising to the surface of the ice, hinting towards running water just beneath the frosty glass.

"It stops." His voice sounded loud in the sudden quiet. He didn't get a response either. "Sam?" Dean was treated to more silence. He spun quickly, eyes immediately drawn to the spot where he had last seen Sam standing. "Sam?"

The space was empty. Dean chewed on his lower lip. Where could that man have gone?

"SAM!" He bellowed. Couldn't his bumbling brother just stay put for once in his—holy CRAP that hurt! Something that was hard, thick, and felt very much akin to a tree trunk rammed into his body again, chest level, and Dean planted his foot behind him to balance himself. But he'd lost his sense of surroundings for just one moment, and that was all it took for his foot to shift far enough back to slide over the edge of the drop-off. Before he could stop himself, his body was tumbling fifteen-some feet to the creek below. He thought he heard himself yelling for Sammy just before his head became sudden, very close friends with the ice, and his already dim world faded to black.

2,616

***A/N  
>I<strong>**was****gonna****leave****it****here****…****make****all****y****'****all****wait.****But****nah****…****I****'****m****not****that****mean.****Not****today,****anyway.****So****as****a****holiday****treat,****here****'****s****an****extra****2,917****words****:D**

Sam paused as he thought he heard someone saying something.

"Sam?" The voice drifted across the crystal clear air once more.

_Just__one__minute,__Dean-o._Sam huffed inwardly.

"Sam?"

God! He couldn't even take a freaking _leak_without his older brother worrying about him.

"Coming." He called, albeit not very loudly, as he zipped up his jeans.

"SAM!"

His brother's voice held a note of concern, and definite worry—they'd all be award winners of the worry wart medal before long—so Sam picked up his pace, exiting the trees just in time to see his brother trying to regain his balance before dropping out of sight, a panicked "SAAMMMYY!" drifting up to meet his ears. The plea was followed immediately after by a sickening _thump_ and the distinct sound of ice cracking beneath an overwhelming weight.

"DEAN!"

Sam shot forward, planning on stopping a few feet before the edge of the ravine to peer over the edge. But he too, lost his footing—which really, two Winchesters losing their balance within a few minutes, that was a record—and he sailed into nothingness, catching a glimpse of his brother's wet, limp body before his scrabbling hands met purchase on the other bank. He slid a few feet, hands and boots scraping against the hard-packed, frozen ground. Sam finally got one foot underneath him and flipped his body over so he was at least sliding on his back. The descent was steep, but didn't last much longer, and Sam's butt collided with a rock, finally stilling his travel.

He sat there for a moment, catching his breath and his bearings. "Well, that was interesting." His voice sounded small and insignificant to his ears, but that might have been because the steady thrum of blood rushing through his head was still on the verge of being considered deafening.

"S'mmy?"

Sam shot to his feet. "Dude, there you are." Had he seriously nearly forgotten he was down here to get Dean? Sam shook his head quickly, ridding his mind of that thought. These woods had started out being just creepy…but now he was beginning to wonder if there was something seriously _wrong_out here.

"S'mmy…unnngh." Sam looked over to see Dean, face ashen and eyes squeezed shut, with his hand stretched out beside him, patting all the snowy ground within arm's length. Sam trotted over and knelt down, mindful of the ice that was cracked in similar patterns to bullet-ridden glass, and encompassed his brother's cold, searching hand in both of his own.

"Looking for something, man?"

"You…b-bit-tch." Dean stuttered, a hint of an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "W-where'd d'ya g-go?"

"To take a piss, jerk." Sam grinned, scanning his brother's body for obvious injuries. He couldn't see any, but the ice underneath his brother's head was coloring pink rapidly.

"S-so n-now you f-finally deci-cide to t-take m-mai a'vice an' p-piss off."

Sam sighed. "Dean, couldn't you just moan and groan like a normal injured person? I can barely understand you on a regular basis, but it's even worse now..."

Dean finally opened his eyes…but only to shoot Sam a half-hearted version of his usual seething glare.

"Wh…" He licked his lips and tried again. "What happened?"

So at least Sam could understand him now, but who knew how long _that_would last. "I was kinda hoping you could tell me, man."

"C-can we g-get the hell outta this freezer?"

Sam blinked. "Dude, you dropped twenty feet onto a frozen creek. That's no freezer."

Dean tipped his head a little to the side, glassy green eyes hungrily taking in his surroundings. "Oh. That s'plains it. My calculations said…fifteen feet."

"Potato, tomato." Sam grinned, waving his hand back and forth the way Dean had done that morning.

"Five feet's five feet." Dean groaned, struggling to get up. His hand slipped on the ice and Sam ended up hauling the wet, one-hundred-ninety-some pound bull that was his brother into a standing position. He held Dean, propped up against the shoulder of his better arm and fingered the man's scalp, trying to ignore the way that Dean almost purred and burrowed closer to his warm little brother.

"S'good, Sammy."

"You're weird." Sam smiled, resisting the urge to pat his brother on the top of his head. Sam finished his examination—determining that yes, Dean had hit his head _rather_hard, and roamed his eyes over the slumping figure. Aside from the impressive lump, and the fact that Dean's wet hair was already accumulating icicles, there weren't any other injuries to take stock of. Dean's back would probably be a masterpiece of colorful bruises tomorrow morning—which reminded Sam that he would be having the joy of hauling his soggy, probably concussed brother all the way back to the cabin.

"You up for a little walk, bro?"

"If by little, you mean _all__the__way__back_to the cabin…" Dean nuzzled his head into Sam's shoulder again, "then sure."

Sam nodded, taking a small step. Dean didn't move.

"Dean, it's dark—we gotta get going."

"Goin' w'ere?"

Sam huffed. Scratch the probably, make that "_definitely_concussed" brother. Fun times.

"To the cabin." He explained patiently.

"Oh."

"You ready?"

"Yup." Dean nodded enthusiastically, then pitched forward abruptly, spewing grilled cheese and tomato soup violently out of his throat.

"Shit." Dean coughed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He barely had the time to catch his breath before he vomited again, this time falling to his knees from the unexpected force. What little contents that were left in his stomach were now splattered across the ice and snow, mixing in grotesquely with the blood from Dean's head wound. One look at the mess and Sam was seriously considering vomiting himself—but Dean beat him to it, his body throwing itself into another round of heaving, but this time Dean's bone-dry stomach decided it had nothing left to return to sender, and the vomiting soon dissipated into violent coughing.

Trying to be helpful—because, really, how much could he do right now?—Sam picked up a handful of snow and melted it between his hands, getting his palms cool and wet. He cupped the back of Dean's neck, hoping that it would have a similar effect of a damp washcloth. Dean let out a startled yelp and he jerked upright, ramrod straight, before his muscles went slack completely and he tumbled to the creek bed in an unceremonious heap, narrowly missing the frozen puddle of blood and vomit.

Sam frowned in disgust. Apparently, he would be pulling an all-nighter, babysitting his unconscious brother in the bottom of a ravine in the freezing cold, because they clearly weren't going anywhere tonight, on foot or otherwise.

Camping in a frozen ravine—at least he could mark that down as a new first in his book. Sam laughed a little, thinking how if Dean had heard that he would have snarked out "troll!" and giggled his ass off. Sam heaved a longsuffering sigh and set about trying to make his brother as comfortable as possible, hoping he would regain consciousness soon.

"You should get a picture."

"If it were a comical situation, yeah." Chet glared at her brother.

As soon as the radio connection had been severed, Chet was hustling herself and Donnie into their gear, and had made it to the wrecked ATV in record time. It hadn't been hard to track the brothers from there on out, Dean hadn't been making much effort to conceal his tracks, and the gigantor had been shuffling slowly enough that his tracks looked like a wooly mammoth's…not that Chet really knew what those looked like, but she could guess. And then there had been the smoke. At first it looked like the smoke was rising from the ground—technically impossible, there were no steaming geysers or whatever out in Iowa—and Chet's curiosity had gotten the best of her. She wondered if the Winchesters were _really_dumb enough to camp out in the elements with a guaranteed snowstorm on the way. Then again, the Winchesters had a track record of being…odd.

Now she had found herself peering into the hollowed-out root system of a large oak, courtesy of termites and other creepy-crawlies, across the dwindling flame of a small survival fire. Neither man was awake, at least they didn't look it. She figured if they had been aware of her presence, she would have at least two shotguns pointed her direction—which was precisely why she had Donnie shoved behind her as far as possible.

"They look sick." Donnie observed blandly.

"Yuck."

She looked closer—the bigger one's cheeks were flushed, nostrils glistening with mucus. Yup, runny nose, pale complexion…probably a cold. The older hunter had a strip of t-shirt tied around his head Rambo-style. Chet was pretty sure he hadn't been wearing that earlier, and he looked like he was running a fever to boot. Just dandy.

Sam jolted awake with a start, choking on the mucus that was slowly traveling down his throat—which felt like he had been swallowing gravel all night. Fan-doodley-tastic. It took him a moment (which translated to "way too long") to realize that a warm hand on his forehead had awoken him in the first place. He was a second away from breaking said hand when he recognized Chet's worried face hovering above him.

"Wondered if that would wake you." She said quietly.

"Um…" He shot a glance at Dean, just in time to see Donnie reaching a hand towards the other hunter. "No, Donnie!" The teenager retracted his hand in record time, scrambling out of the way as Dean took a swing at him, fully awake and panicked as a rabid dog. Chet grabbed Dean's fist deftly, throwing an arm across Dean's neck as he struggled against her.

Sam rolled his eyes. His brother was probably still a little concussed, and he felt bad about that—but it was still amusing to see him wrestling with a girl only two-thirds his weight. When it looked like Dean was about ready to win, Sam stepped in.

"Dean, stop."

Like a switch had been thrown, Dean collapsed onto his back, panting. Chet grinned.

"You guys really should get better at not going Tap-Out on the first person that tries to wake you up."

"Force of habit." Dean groaned, sitting up and eyeing Chet warily.

"No kidding. Oh, by the way—is it 'force of habit' to stay out in the blistering cold all night?"

"No choice." Sam quickly explained the phenomenon that had been their evening, watching both Wyman siblings to gauge their reactions. Chet pretty much just nodded every so often, but Donnie's eyes were saucers.

"So, what was Dean doing near the creek?"

"Tracking the…uh…tracks." Dean mumbled.

"What tracks?"

"You followed ours, how could you have missed them? Big brush marks, stopped a few feet from the creek…you know, THOSE tracks."

"Didn't see any. Except for your guys', of course."

Dean looked at Sam questioningly. He shrugged. How the heck was he supposed to know?

"So you're saying that either I missed the tracks—which is possible—or they have disappeared?"

Dean nodded and Chet huffed. "I'm so sick of shit disappearing. You think there's any chance you guys can find those hunters that disappeared? If not, I'm sending you off and torching the place myself."

Sam flinched as Donnie gasped. "That's a little…drastic, don't you think?"

"You tell me." Chet shrugged. "You're the experts. Except…you know, you were camping in the freaking cold."

"Extraneous circumstances." Dean mumbled, surprising Sam by even knowing the word, let alone knowing how to use it in context. Then again, Dean was smarter than most people gave him any credit for.

"Fine. But no more wandering around by yourselves. It was stupid of me to send you off alone, I'm sorry."

"Forgiven." Dean huffed. "But seriously, why'd you do it?"

Chet swallowed, staying silent for a few moments. "Pride, I guess. My dad would have known how to fix this problem and he's dead so…I felt I should be able to and—I guess I just didn't know what I was dealing with."

"None of us do." Sam supplied helpfully. "That's why we're here. And I say we get to the bottom of it, but we can only do that if you're willing to actually _help_us." Sam made a quick, smooth transition into interview mode.

Chet nodded slowly. "Shoot."

"Don't tempt me." Dean snarked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Headache?" Donnie asked. Dean's terse nod was the only reply the teenager received. It took Sam a moment to realize that his headache was back in full swing, which could only mean one thing: whatever it was that made that scream was likely to do it again…and soon.

"So first question—have you ever experienced a blinding headache while hearing a woman in labor scream?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?"

"A valid one." Sam huffed. "We're dealing with something very strange here."

Dean huffed out a short, barking laugh. "You could say that again—so far we've got; what…the ghost of a fuzzy pregnant coyote that wears a textured cape to brush away its tracks…?"

Sam shot Dean his best "Seriously?" look. Chet was doing the same and Sam felt the need to explain his brother's current intellectual impotence.

"Forgive the concussed ramblings of my brother…" he began. "But that's not quite true. I'm guessing a ghost, yes, because there were no traces of sulphur around the wreckage, so that rules out demon. Do you know of any local lore, or known meddling in witchcraft throughout your family's history?" Sam knew the question sounded crazy, but he expected a little bit more interesting of a reaction than what he received. Chet merely smiled lazily.

"Demons? Witchcraft? Where did you guys graduate…Hogwarts Academy? Really—where do you guys get this stuff?"

Sam answered "books" at the same time Dean grumped "experience", leaving the Wyman siblings looking confused.

"Okay, different tactic." Dean groaned, rubbing his eyes blearily. "What about the hunters that disappeared? How did you know them?"

"Chris and Luke?" Chet shrugged. "They were friends of our father's. Hunted our land every year—kept the deer population at a minimum, sometimes they got turkeys. Good guys, really—I don't think they would have been messed up in anything weird."

Sam and Dean shared a look, and Sam took the lead again. "So that leaves you guys, and your parents."

"Our dad would never have messed with any of that. My mom left when I was young…Donnie's mom never would have been into that, she was a strict Christian."

"Grandparents?"

"Don't know much about 'em, except they owned the tree farm. They'd inherited it from my grandfather's parents, who were Baptists."

"So basically, we're barking up the wrong family tree." Dean muttered. "Fun."

"Do you think there's a chance we'll ever find the hunters?" Donnie asked, his pale face glowing orange, shadowed in the firelight—which was the only place he had been looking for some time.

"Doubt it." Dean chirped casually.

"So they're dead."

"Unless we find proof otherwise—but with this weather, they won't be for long." Dean surmised. "I mean, how do you get lost on 100 acres, anyway? You can see the cabin from most high locations—and you've done a bang-up job of keeping marked trails."

"You never answered our question of whether or not you two were into anything…weird." Sam added.

Donnie frowned. "You're suspecting us?"

Dean shrugged. "We have to, until you give us reason to believe otherwise."

"Donnie's just like every other kid." Chet said, her voice dropping a near octave and cooling slightly. She was warning them, Sam realized. "Sure, he's read about dragons and fairies—" Dean shuddered visibly at this—"but he's a good kid. Not into emo witches and crap."

"Fair enough." Dean smiled disarmingly at Donnie. "So is your sister a good girl?"

The teen smirked mischievously. "Whenever the judge is around, sure!"

"Ha ha. Seriously." Dean pressed. "We gotta know."

Donnie's expression became less cheerful. "She's not to blame."

"Okay then. That leaves…rampant, anonymous fugly." Dean grinned. "My favorite!" He crawled out of the little shelter Sam had deposited them in last night, stretching his back.

"Guess the interview is over." Sam mused, wondering what his brother knew that he didn't.

Several miles away, in what would appear to be an entirely different world to anyone capable of observing both the pine tree farm and the town simultaneously, Judge Cason Schiff indulged in one of his favorite pastimes: spinning in his office chair while slurping loudly on a marshmallow-laden mug of cocoa. He was about to call it a day—based on the weather reports his sweet, but on-the-verge-of-being-annoying secretary continually updated him with, they were in for one hell of a storm, and he kind of wanted to get home early to take his dogs out before the sky dumped its waste on him.

When his phone rang, any intention of going home—or even _thinking_about it—was thrown out the window.

He burst out of his office, shouting for his secretary to phone the sheriff and tell him to send some patrols to the Cutter's ranch and get their livestock locked up in the barn. She stuttered something affirmative, but he wasn't really listening. He was too busy thinking of the fastest route to the Wyman tree farm.

**A/N**

**That's all for now! Props to anyone who might have guessed who I wrote the judge to look like. I also realized a mistake I made: the very first update I posted to this story said something about balmy Iowa night, or something like that—and I then I wrote it in a winter setting. Sorry about that. It started out as a winter story, I'm not sure what got into my head when I wrote that prologue piece. **


	6. Chapter 6

_Previously, on "Nightcrawler"…_

Cason burst out of his office, shouting for his secretary to phone the sheriff and tell him to send some patrols to the Cutter's ranch and get their livestock locked up in the barn. She stuttered something affirmative, but he wasn't really listening. He was too busy thinking of the fastest route to the Wyman tree farm.

"Come on, come on…pick up your phone…" Cason growled into his iPhone, darn near ready to throw the damn thing out the windshield.

"**Sam.****" ** The younger Winchester's voice finally drifted through his speaker.

"Sam? Thank God. Is Chet around?"

"**Sure,****right****here.****" **

"Don't—you don't have to put her on. Just…" Cason checked his rear view mirror, wondering what the hell the dinky car behind his truck was doing out in this kind of weather. The sky was dumping buckets of snow, mesmerizing chunks of icy whiteness gathered on his windshield almost too fast for the wipers to keep up. "Just get to the cabin and stay put, okay? I'm coming to get you guys."

"**Judge, what's going on? You know something?" **

"Maybe—shit!" he swerved to avoid a pothole that would have been very capable of twisting—or breaking—his truck's axle, especially given the speed he was maintaining. "The farmhand up at Cutter's ranch said he got a glimpse of some big, weird bird just before it made off with one of their cattle. I'm guessing that kind of thing is right up your alley?"

There was muffled talking on the other end, probably Sam discussing this new information with his brother. His voice came back on quickly, talking loud and fast.

"**Don't come here, Chet says the roads aren't safe. She's gonna lead us to the Cutter farm, we'll meet you there. Sounds like it might be a Valkrie or something." **

Cason silently mouthed 'valkrie', screwing up his brows in thought. "A Valkrie, huh…yeah, right. And I'm Ironman. Really, Sam—that's your best guess?"

There was an audible huff. **"****Actually,****it****was****Dean****'****s****best****guess****…****do****you****have****a****better****suggestion?****Overgrown****bald****eagle,****perhaps?****" **

"I…never mind. Sorry. I'll meet you at the Cutter ranch, then."

"**Sure. Bye." **

Cason didn't have the right to question the Winchesters, this strange situation was their field of expertise, not his—and he knew that. But it was human instinct to do what he'd done, to find a logical reason to justify whatever absurd information he was given. Cason tossed his phone into the seat next to him and scrubbed a numb hand over his face. He'd forgotten to turn the heat on in the truck, but screw it. He was close enough to the ranch it wouldn't really matter.

When he pulled into the drive, Cason was immediately reminded why he had studied justice instead of regular law enforcement. He knew his limits, he knew his talents, and messing around with forensics and CSI was something he had wanted to stay far, _far_away from. For one particular reason.

All the _freaking_ blood.

There was blood everywhere. A true blue bloody Valentine's Day massacre. And the sight of it, even from here in his truck? Yeah, it was totally freaking him out.

_Breathe__…__just__breathe._ He reminded himself; or tried to. Huh—wasn't really working this time. Crime scene photos, evidence—that was one thing; their small town didn't have that much to deal with anyway. But this…_this_was over the top, totally above his limit. Cason stumbled out of his truck, wrist pressed against his mouth to try and stifle the innate urge to heave lunch, snack, and the hot cocoa he'd drank at his office onto the frozen ground. His nearly-stale cologne only served to elevate his nausea.

The police captain recognized him almost immediately, and shuffled over to him as fast as his over-weight, doughnut laden body would allow. _Uggh,__doughnuts.__Wrong__analogy,__idiot._

"Are you alright, Your Honor?" A mitten-ed palm hovered near his shoulder, ready to maybe, just _maybe_catch him if he were to pass out and topple to the ground—but it was purely for aesthetic purposes. Captain Morgan—yeah, no jokes there—wasn't worth even a quarter of his not too insubstantial weight, so Carson ignored the formalities.

"Cut the crap, Morgan." He coughed into his palm as the nausea finally subsided. Well, it subsided as long as he kept his eyes on the ground—or the sky—or his hands, or anywhere that didn't involve staring at the bloody mess that used to be a cattle pen. "What's going on?"

"Cutter's freaked out—his entire herd is gone, slaughtered. All that's left is—"

"That disgusting mess of shit that I don't want you to mention in my presence." Cason finished for him, steel glinting in his voice. "I've called some people over here to handle this. I want you to tell your boys to get home, alright? Get to their families, lock up their animals—just stay put and enjoy the evening, got that?"

Morgan huffed, pulling up to his full height—all of four inches more than Cason—and narrowed his eyes. "Now wait a second! With all due respect, your Honor, this is _my_ investigation! I'm the commanding officer here and—"

"And I'm the guy that let your eff-up slide because my father owed you a favor!" Cason snapped. He understood the captain's issue, really, but there was no way on God's now-white earth that Morgan would have a clue as to what even the _tip_of this bloody iceberg meant. "Now I try not to pull rank too often, but when it comes down to it, I'm the final authority around here, save for higher intervention! So tell your boys to go home, and _get__lost.__" _

Captain Morgan shuffled his feet for a moment, then finally nodded. "Yes sir."

It wasn't but a few minutes after the police had left when Chet's truck pulled into the yard, followed by a beautiful black beast of a car that Cason would have given a hundred thousand dollars for on the spot. Man, you sure didn't come across one of those old classics in near-factory condition every day.

"Nice ride." He told the Dean as the hunter slinked out of the driver's seat. The man flashed a grin, the kind that assured you that you deserved whatever shit you had coming.

"I tend to think so. We've been going out for a while."

Sam rolled his eyes as he stepped up next to his brother. Cason wondered just how much it would suck to have your little brother out-grow you by a good four inches.

"Don't let him catch your eyes on her for too long, he's likely to pluck them out." Sam grinned, then sobered as his eyes fell on the slaughter zone. "Oh, god."

Cason held a hand up, bile rising in his throat at the mere thought of the mess. "Just…don't mention it."

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it, fish-like, a few times, before falling completely silent. Dean just quirked a brow, smirking. So they knew he was squeamish. Big deal. It wasn't like he was a judge, or anything…

"When did it happen?" Donnie, of all people, started.

"An hour ago, hour and a half, maybe."

The kid paled.

"Yeah, pretty disgusting, huh?" Dean squeezed the kid's shoulder. "If you gotta hurl, go ahead, it doesn't make you any less of a man." He eyed Cason pointedly, eyes sparkling with taunting mischief. Cason was beginning to understand why Sam rolled his eyes so often, and wondered if the man had ever gotten them stuck in a rolled position.

"Hey, Dean, what's with the uh…the Rambo get-up?" Cason pointed to the scrap of cloth tied warrior-style around Dean's noggin.

"Cas…" Chet warned. She said it more "Cas", instead of "Case", like she usually did, it was probably the way the cold had her teeth chattering, and Cason let it slide. But he didn't miss the sharp intake of breath, the strange glimmer that shone in Dean's eyes for a split second when Chet spoke the name. The look was gone as soon as it had appeared, leaving Dean's expression neutral, and leaving Cason confused…again.

"Oh this?" Dean frowned. "I bumped my head. Actually, I was going for more of a _Deer__Hunter_look."

_Deer__Hunter?_Oh yeah, Robert DeNiro. Wasn't Rambo cooler? Not like it mattered.

"Right. So…Valkries."

"My best guess. Weren't quite finished with the whole pregnant ghost thing, though."

"Ghost?" Cason couldn't help but squeak. "Are you…wait. Chet's tree farm is haunted?"

"It's what we're thinking." Sam added.

"Well, _something_had to have knocked me off that ledge." Dean mumbled indignantly. "And I didn't see it. So, we're dealing with the supernatural, yeah."

"Which is _kinda_why you called us." Sam said.

"Yup." Cason nodded. "So you boys go, uh, do your thing, right?" _And__don__'__t__get__me__ANYWHERE__near__that__blood!_

"Sure." The brothers said simultaneously, turning to the trunk of the Impala.

"WAIT!"

The group was shocked to hear Donnie's startled outburst.

"Wait."

Donnie watched as the Winchesters spoke with the judge, Chet's "not-boyfriend" boyfriend. It was killing him inside, knowing that they were here, had traveled hundreds of miles, for him, and him alone. They might think they were helping Chet, but Donnie knew deep down that they were here for him. It had to be.

He had hoped that nobody had gotten hurt because of it. They brothers had said that the missing hunters had disappeared, not died. So there was hope for them. But the cattle though…that proved to be a problem. A _big_ problem. A problem that the Winchesters might not be prepared to go up against. And that was something Donnie would not, could not tolerate. He would not allow those nice men to be killed because of him. Dean was already hurt, though he was hiding the symptoms of his concussion on a professional level, and Sam had been getting those weird headaches. It had to stop.

Donnie's only problem was, he didn't know _how._

Dean pulled up short. "What's up, kiddo?"

Donnie shifted from one foot to the other, boots shuffling the snow around nervously. "You uh, you don't know what you're dealing with, do you?"

"I've got a plan." That was Dean-code for "there is no way in hell that I have a freaking plan, what are you, an idiot?" and he could tell that Sam had already decoded it, and Cason was working on it. Dean had tried his best not to snap at the teenager, but _dammit,_he was freezing his ass off out here!

"You have absolutely no idea." The teen reiterated.

"No!"

"Dean!" Sam hissed warningly. "Just let him talk."

It sounded like an order, but the hand—the freakishly large paw—that Sam placed on Dean's shoulder was gentle, reassuring, instead of demanding. Their silent code. _This__has__to__happen,_it said. Dean nodded, subtly. _You__were__always__better__at__reading__people,__Sammy._ Letting Sam know he understood. He'd back off.

"No we don't." Dean rephrased.

"It's really big…and scary. And dangerous." Donnie began slowly.

Dean cocked his head. _What__the__hell__was__this__kid__talking__about?_

"Mm-hmm." Sam nodded.

"And it's hungry."

"No shit Sherlock!" Dean snapped again. And again, Sam's hand told him to back off. "I mean…sure, I guess." Dean mumbled. "But what the hell, Donnie? Are you trying to tell me you know what this thing is?"

The teen shifted uncomfortably under Dean's scrutinizing, inquisitive glare. It was the wild-eyed, emerald-like-only-HD TV-can-give-you glare he used to break talented, dangerous people. It had generally always worked before, and it was clearly working now.

Donnie let out a heaving sigh.

"I don't know _what_it is, per se, but I know what it is _called._"

This time Cason beat Dean to the outburst. "Stop dawdling, Donnie! How can you know what it's called, but not know what it is—that makes no sense!"

"It's not _supposed_to make sense!" Donnie fired back. "I know its name."

Sam knelt down so he was nearly eye level with the teenager, who was clearly feeling intimidated, and potentially even threatened, by the situation he now found himself in.

"Donnie…" he spoke softly. "This, whatever it is, is very important. Whatever information you have…we're kind of like supernatural cops, okay? It's wrong to withhold information that could lead to the conclusion of this situation. So whatever you know—you need to share with us. Do you understand?"

Donnie nodded.

"Geez, it's like talking to a five year old." Dean muttered, and he was pretty sure only Cason heard him. The judge snickered softly, but remained silent otherwise.

"Sam…I want to tell you."

"Go ahead." Sam urged Donnie.

"_Just_you."

Dean could tell Sam was resisting the need to roll his eyes…so Dean rolled his own for him. It was just one of those things that brothers do for each other. Well, maybe not—but it was the thought that counted, right?

Sam agreed, toting Donnie off to talk in the Impala after leaving Dean with strict instructions to examine the disaster site, but to be careful. So Dean grabbed a highly protesting Cason by the jacket sleeve and drug him towards the cattle pen, leaving a worried Chet to stand, shivering, by herself near her vehicle.

"Hold this and make yourself useful." Dean shoved a spare sawed-off at Cason, who was spluttering expletives as he timidly took in the mess before him. Dean cast Cason a careful glance—just before the judge bent over double, just managing to toss the shotgun to a bewildered Dean as his breakfast, lunch, snack, and hot chocolate made a honorary reappearance on the bloody ground.

"What the…" Dean looked between Cason and the shotgun he had just caught, puzzled. Wow, the guy really was squeamish. He watched helplessly as his new, but so far useless partner wretched, thinking that Sam would have known what to do—would have, who knows, patted his back and held his hair or something girly like that.

Dean settled for a barked "Snap out of it, _Ironman.__" _and traipsed off into the middle of the cattle pen to survey the crime scene.

"Ironman?" Came the weak response. "What?"

Dean huffed. "You said, and I quote, 'then I'm Ironman'."

Cason, despite his nausea, managed to scoff. "I said 'if that's a Valkrie, then I'm Ironman."

"Oooh." Dean shrugged. "Well you look like him."

"And this guy's for real." Cason stated to no one in particular.

Dean elaborated. "Ever since we met…ewwww." He kicked a stray cow hoof out of his path. "I thought you looked like somebody. Turns out it's Ironman, you know, Tony Stark."

"Yeah, yeah. Gotcha." Cason had finally regained most of his senses, although his stomach would be a long time in catching up, and had made his way over to where Dean was toeing through the mess. "So…your professional verdict is?"

"Cell phone." Dean responded.

"Wait—what? That's all you—"

Dean clapped a hand over Cason's mouth as he dug into Cason's jacket. "Cell. Phone." Dean restated slowly and deliberately. He flipped the phone open.

"Judge Schiff's phone, you're going on speaker."

"**Dean…" **

"Definitely Sam." Dean grinned. "What's up, bitch?" He merely smirked at Cason's horrified expression. Clearly, the man would _never_understand the Winchesters. Never.

"**Hi to you too, jerk. Turns out Donnie knows exactly what this thing is. It's the ghost of his pet." **

"I'm sorry—come again?" Dean frowned.

"Nightcrawler." Cason whispered. "His cat."

"NIGHTCRAWLER? Who the hell names their cat Nightcrawler? That's creepy." Dean fussed. "Well, kitty didn't quite come back all cuddly if it's using cattle catnip and hiding hunters like they're balls of yarn."

"**Well, that was my theory. Donnie didn't technically mean to do it—he was reading some fantasy novels and he got the idea to reincarnate his cat."**

"And?"

"**He didn't know how to speak Latin." **

Cason nudged Dean. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't know."

"**It means he used the next best thing."**

"Sam, spit it out!"

"**Geez, Dean, I'm still reeling from the information my brain has had to download today, okay? Technically, it means he went through the novels collecting any relevant terms he could find and pieced those together. Problem is, the language was a modernized fictional representation of a tainted Latin dialect that died off a couple of centuries ago—" **

Sam was interrupted by one of Nightcrawler's wails. Dean cringed.

"So he tries to get kitty back by going all _Brisingr_ on his dead cat's ass and winds up with whatever beast makes that GODAWFUL SOUND?"

"**Basically, yeah." **

"So what is it, technically."

"**Technically, it's a black, American Shorthair Mongrel with, uh…talents." **

"Fantastic summary, college boy." Dean groaned. "That tells me nothing except that I'm gonna have to shoot a black kitty in the head."

"**Donnie says that in the stable, it was the size of a newborn horse, with orange eyes and wings." **

"And outside the stable?" Dean was almost afraid to ask.

"**He guesses it weighs about two-thousand pounds now. The top of my head might, and he stresses _might_reach the cat's haunches." **

"Oh, that's freaking wonderful." Dean stomped his boot into the ground, splashing bloody mud onto his jeans. "Does he have a list of talents, weaknesses? Perhaps a _diagram?__" _

"It flies." Cason stated.

"Yeah, Sherlock, it has wings. The question is how fast can it fly and—"

Cason smacked Dean's head and pointed, effectively shutting him up. "No, I mean, it _flies.__" _

Dean looked where Cason was pointing. "Oh." _OH._

"Holy crap. Cason found it. I mean, I can see it—it's uh…it's…shit. Twelve o'clock, Sammy."

The silence on the other end told Dean all he needed to know. Sam was now looking at what Dean and Cason were seeing: a black cat with orange eyes and black, leathery wings. And it was _big._

Dean fumbled to get Cason's hands to point the shotgun at the sky. "Point, shoot."

"Got it."

"Really?" Dean aimed his shotgun as well, tracking the cat's arrival with the muzzle of the gun.

"My dad took me skeet shooting all the time. I've hunted Chet's property a couple of times too."

"That so." Dean nodded, hoping Sammy was taking the necessary precautions. He knew he would, but still—he was the big brother, and he wasn't _there._"This is a little bit different, partner."

He could hear Cason swallow next to him. "Uh…yeah, I'm getting that picture."

Hopefully this is enough to tie you guys over for a while!

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!


	7. Chapter 7

_Previously, on NIGHTCRAWLER:_

Sam was now looking at what Dean and Cason were seeing: a black cat with orange eyes and black, leathery wings. And it was _big._

Dean fumbled to get Cason's hands to point the shotgun at the sky. "Point, shoot."

"Got it."

"Really?" Dean aimed his shotgun as well, tracking the cat's arrival with the muzzle of the gun.

"My dad took me skeet shooting all the time. I've hunted Chet's property a couple of times too."

"That so." Dean nodded, hoping Sammy was taking the necessary precautions. He knew he would, but still—he was the big brother, and he wasn't _there._"This is a little bit different, partner."

He could hear Cason swallow next to him. "Uh…yeah, I'm getting that picture."

**Nightcrawler**

DAY 2: Nightfall

Sam crouched behind the judge's pickup, the Ford F-250's extra wide bed was a lot more formidable cover than he was used to, and suddenly he felt guilty knowing that Dean and Cason were in the middle of the corral, out in the open. He glanced at Chet, who had a shotgun of her own slung over her shoulder. Sam doubted it would do any good, as it only fired rubber rounds that hadn't even been consecrated, but it probably made the woman feel better, and it might help stop the creature anyway. The truth was, Sam had no idea how to kill it, and that scared him. He was used to being able to investigate a site, go to the motel and research it, and return with some semblance of an idea on how to get rid of whatever "fugly" they were up against. But in the here and now, having thought the creature a ghost and now being confronted with something entirely new; the reality of their dire situation made Sam want to call for the brown britches.

He heard the report of a shotgun, the Remington 870 long-range from the sound of it, and he smiled, thankful that Dean got the chance to try out his new "express combo" as he called it. Sam swung his own shotgun up to bear, but ducked again when he realized that he was too far out of range to do anything other than alert Nightcrawler of his location. No, he and Chet had to stay hidden in case—and oh, God don't let there be an "in case"—the overgrown kitty-cat got past Dean. He heard another four shots, fired in quick succession. There was a short bout of silence before another shot rang out, and Sam ducked again, cringing as Dean let loose a war cry that would have insulted any Indian warrior of old. He cringed not because the sound hurt his ears, in fact, he was pretty much accustomed to it; but because he knew what it meant. It meant that the fugly had done something to enrage Dean, such as throw him or his weapon against something hard and unforgiving, or, even better—was hurting his "Sammy". Since Sam knew for a fact that he himself was perfectly alright, he presumed it was the former, and he hoped that Dean was alright.

He was not, however, expecting Dean to come tearing around the side of the truck, sliding to a halt before collapsing to the ground beside his little brother. But Dean did just that, and before Sam could stop himself, he was checking his exhausted older brother for injuries, cringing as he heard Dean's lungs wheezing as the sharp winter air deprived them of oxygen.

"Y'okay Sammy?"

Sam resisted the strong urge to smack Dean across the face and nodded. "You?"

"Peachy."

Sure. Dean-talk for "I'm hurting like hell, but I'll live".

"Can't—_pant_—say the same—_pant_—for Ironman."

Sam stopped his injury hunt and frowned, leaning down to look into Dean's flushed face. "Dude, Ironman? What the hell! Is your concussion that bad?"

"Cason—kitty took him."

Sam opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, thinking. So the cat took the judge? Before he could press the matter, Dean continued.

"I was shooting at the thing, hit it in the shoulder and it went down hard. I thought I'd got it—but next thing I know, the fugly's up and running, headed for Cason, I blast it a couple more times but it takes off into the air, disappears before I can get another shot at it."

"And your war cry?"

"My what?"

"Dude, you sounded like Bruce Willis or something—I mean, seriously, you don't remember yelling?"

Dean stared at Sam, blinking sweat out of his eyes. "I dunno, I might've gotten angry when I saw the thing making off with the judge, but…" he glanced up as Chet entered his line of sight, peering over Sam's shoulder.

"Your brother gonna be okay?"

"He'll live." Sam frowned. "So you say he went straight for Cason?"

Dean nodded, struggling to his feet. Sam reached a hand down and grabbed his brother's wrist, hauling him up before he had time to protest.

"Well that's just strange." Sam mumbled as Dean rolled his shoulders, popping his neck in the process.

Chet shook her head, her face registering disbelief. "I don't know what got into Donnie, honestly. I didn't even _ know _ he read fantasy books. He's always been fine, I mean, he gets good grades, hangs out with decent friends…"

"It's always the good ones that get ruined." Dean muttered.

"Are you saying Cason has something to do with this?" Sam asked, trying to approach the subject of Chet's kinda-sorta-not-boyfriend gently.

Dean remained silent for a few moments, his brows drawn together and his mouth screwed up, thinking.

"Dean?"

Silence.

"DEAN!"

"God, Samantha, do you ever SHUT UP?"

Dean's outburst startled Sam so much that he didn't bother getting mad. "Sorry, I—"

"I'm tryin' to _think _here!"

"Don't hurt yourself." Sam mumbled, eying Chet nervously to avoid Dean's dangerous glare. If Dean's eyes could have been made into a weapon, Sam was sure they would have won every war, between fellow man, and good and evil, by now.

Finally, Dean spoke up again. "Your brother may play innocent, Chet, but I think that kid has an agenda."

"Dean…"

"Would you STOP saying my name like that!" Dean growled, and Sam backed off quickly, hating when his brother directed his fury at him, but knowing that it was just the cold weather, headache, and concussion talking.

"Like what?" Chet frowned.

"Like…I dunno, like there's impending doom."

"Call me crazy, but, aren't we facing "impending doom"?" Chet used air quotes that were barely noticed because of the thick gloves that made her fingers look short and chubby.

"Yeah," Dean rolled his neck again and eyed Sam, dropping his voice an octave. "But he doesn't have to remind me."

Sam choked back a laugh and rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his continually running nose, pleased to notice that his headache seemed to have nearly abated entirely. "Dude, you're unbelievable."

"Dude," Donnie, who Sam had nearly forgotten about, chimed in—"what's unbelievable, is you're standing there, screwing around, while that thing has Cason!"

"_Dude," _Dean said dangerously, "if you want him back so badly, why don't you call your little pet off! Last I checked, you wanted him DEAD!"

"HEY!" Chet whistled sharply, holding her hands out in a placating manner. "Can everybody _please _stop acting like hormonal girls, and for crying out loud, stop calling everybody "dude"!" 

Dean looked at Sam, perhaps in hopes of salvation, but Sam was in as much trouble as anyone, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Donnie." Chet bent down to her brother's level, "Is it true? Do you hate Cason _ so much _that you would rather him die than be with me?"

"I don't hate him—I never did. I just…" Donnie glanced at the Winchester brothers nervously. "I just don't want him to replace Dad."

Chet sighed. "Sweetie, he's not trying to."

"But I know he will! In the end, he's gonna be there, every day, reading the newspaper at breakfast, driving home to have lunch with us, helping out on the farm, sharing dinner with us…" Donnie sighed, his voice becoming almost a whisper toward the end. "Sleeping with you…doing everything Dad did, and I'm gonna have to share you with him!"

"Whoa!" Dean coughed out, effectively halting the conversation. "Is there something going on here we need to know?"

Chet gave Dean a measured glance. "Like…?"

"Like, start with translating. How much of what just came out of that kid's mouth sounded weird to anyone else?"

Sam shrugged. "It _ did _sound…hinky."

"Yeah, hinky as in, incestuously hinky." Dean griped.

"Donnie and I are close, but…it's not what it sounded like." she shook her head. "Nothing ever happened between Donnie and I, it did sound a little strange."

Sam felt Dean's hand brush his bicep and he looked over at his brother, shocked at how round and horrified Dean's eyes had become. "Did she just not give us a straight answer?" Dean's expression said, and Sam had to agree.

"What about you and your dad?" he hated to ask, to pry, but at this point, he had to know. Every piece of information the gleaned could be substantial to figuring the increasingly strange hunt out.

"No!" Chet said quickly, almost too quickly. "My dad and I were…well, we were best friends."

"Not friends with benefits?" Dean asked.

"Look," Chet sighed, "I liked my dad, okay? He was a nice guy, good-looking, we—I started it, when I was old enough to figure out it was attraction and not hero worship…but, Donnie wasn't supposed to know about it."

"Not like it wasn't obvious." Donnie said matter-of-factly, seemingly not bothered by the situation at all.

"How far did it go?" Sam pressed as Dean took a few steps away from Chet, doing nothing to hide the absolute mortification on his face. Chet remained silent, looking at the ground for a few moments.

"How. Far. Did it GO." Sam tried again, leaning close to Chet, his tone dangerous.

"As far as Donnie."

Dean coughed again, but Sam was pretty sure it was more to cover up whatever sound of disgust he accidentally let out.

"Excuse me?" Dean squinted at Chet. "Are you insane? You're meaning to tell us that…"

Chet nodded solemnly. "When I found out…I don't know, after that, for all practical purposes, we acted as…father and daughter again, mostly." She finished softly.

Sam was pretty sure Dean did start gagging then, he was bent over at the waist, hacking into the snow, groaning deeply in disgust. Sam also knew that if they didn't change topics, and fast, he would be doing the same thing. So he put on his "all ears" expression, and plowed through the middle.

"Okay, since that makes absolutely no sense, we don't we go over what does?"

Dean gagged one final time and stood. "We have a victim, a motive, and an M.O., right?"

Sam nodded, watching as Dean got into his "F.B.I." mode.

"Ladies and gentleman, this is now been officially classified as a crime scene!" And with that, he grabbed his shotgun from where he'd leaned it up against the judge's truck, and stalked off.

Dean had absolutely no idea where he was going, and at this point he wasn't really sure he cared. He had to get away from there, from Chet, and Donnie, and that screwed up mess—and besides, Sammy would follow. He always did. He'd catch up, and he'd have Dean's back again before either of them had time to miss the other.

Priority one was to find Cason.

Priority two; kill fugly.

Priority three would involve telling Cason what was going on without somehow losing the contents of his stomach.

Priority four…get the hell out of this crappy weather, out of Iowa all together. Maybe they could find a hunt in Texas, yeah that would be—

"Dean!"

Dean spun around. Had he seriously just been daydreaming? So not cool. He found himself face to neck with his little brother, and was damn near ready to hug him he was so disgusted, confused, tired, and _cold. _It wasn't his fault Sam looked warm, and he was so…what was he? His head hurt, his shoulder hurt, his hands and feet were numb, and his leather jacket…well he'd be happy if it ever thawed and became soft again. He decided to put his current condition at _ royally screwed _and called it as good as Winchesters got.

But instead of mentioning any of that out loud, he stood there staring at his brother, finally mustering up a loud, drunken-sounding "hey, Sammy!" and earning himself a concerned look.

"You okay, Dean?"

"Good, Sam…I'm good."

"You sure?"

"Yep."

Sam nodded slowly, clearly not convinced. "You…you're trying to forget that you heard any of that, aren't you."

Dean shrugged, thinking. "Yep."

"Yeah." Sam huffed. "You're totally freaked out—"

"Am not."

"Well, I am."

"That's too bad." Dean smiled, trying to appear sympathetic. He failed miserably, and he knew it. "Well, I have a fugly to track."

Sam closed his eyes, and spoke slowly, as if to a child. "There's nothing to track, Dean, it disappeared."

Dean grinned then, a slow, wolfish grin that caused Sam to shift uneasily. "It didn't disappear, Sam. It went supersonic."

Sam gaped like a fish for a few moments, before blinking quickly as he finally seemed to find his voice again. "Wow, Dean, I…I didn't even know you knew that word."

Dean brushed him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "How many gunshots did you hear, bro?"

"Five…seven?" he grimaced, shaking his head. "Six."

"Final answer?"

"Yeah."

"Sixth shot wasn't me. It was the cat."

"Going supersonic."

"Uh-huh." Dean nodded emphatically. "Sam…there's a chance—" he stopped, scrubbing a numb hand over his face. But Sam read him like a book, again.

"Cason couldn't survive that."

Dean nodded, swallowing thickly.

"Shit."

"I tried not to think about, it, but…realistically…" Dean left his sentence hanging, a heavy silence between the brothers. "I mean, dude…he's not _ actually _Ironman."

Sam bobbed his head slowly, as if affirming a statement that hadn't been made. "Until we know, we carry on like normal, like he's still out there for us to find."

"Okay…okay. Good idea. But if we don't find him, I'm not leaving until we do." Dean said quietly, looking Sam in the eyes.

"Um…okay?" Sam tried, questioningly.

"Sam," Dean grinned. "I am _ so _not coming back here to salt and burn his ghostly ass!"

Sam laughed at that, and Dean joined him, relishing in the moment where for a few seconds, they were just two brothers sharing a crass joke, and not the men—the hunters—that they really were.

"Alright." Sam snickered. "Agreed. I don't wanna come back here again either. We do it right the first time."

"Damn straight."

Sam traipsed behind his brother, reluctant to leave Chet and Donnie alone, but unwilling to allow his brother to plow headfirst into danger without backup _yet again. _He was skeptical about the whole tracking thing to begin with, but technically it was all they could do save for waiting for the cat to strike again, and if Dean said he could track it, then Dean could _ damn well _track it. If anybody could, it would be his older, not always wiser, stubborn-assed brother.

They were headed into woodland again, except this area was more sparse, lacking the thick, course pine boughs that held their needles through the winter and consisting of dry, bare limbs devoid of any greenery. It was deathly quiet, the only sounds being the crunch of the snow beneath their boots. It reminded Sam that heavy white flakes were falling quickly, swirling around the Winchester's head at speeds that made Sam worry that there would be no tracks left to lead them back to the farm…if there was a back involved in this strange hunt. Sam vaguely wondered if, given the chance, he or Dean would ever just hunt like normal people, a few rabbits here, a turkey or maybe a buck there. Or they could go to Alaska and hunt moose, or—he stopped. If dreams got crushed, then dreamers got killed.

And Sam did not want to get killed.

So he settled for looking at every branch, stray leaf, or crack in the snow that Dean did, and told himself that it was good enough until he came up with a better plan.

Dean pulled up ahead of him, putting a finger to his lips. Sam stopped immediately, and silenced his breathing. His brother squatted down, sitting on his heels as he stared at something in the snow. Sam leaned over his shoulder.

"Cell phone?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean nodded.

"Cason's?"

Another nod. Sam's stomach lurched into his throat.

"Dean, do you think it's a trap?"

Dean shook his head, gingerly reaching into the snow to retrieve the fallen piece of equipment, wiping crimson liquid that Sam didn't need to identify off with the frozen pant leg of his jeans. He mumbled something as he did so.

"Hmm?" Sam leaned closer to his brother. "I didn't quite catch that."

"I said, 'I wish it was'."

Sam swallowed hard. If Dean was wishing that a bloody cell phone was a trap, instead of a clue…they were up shit creek with no paddles…and per Winchester luck, they were more than likely traveling in a leaky canoe headed straight for an eighty-foot waterfall.

Damn crappy Winchester luck.

Dean had started hiking again, and Sam scurried to catch up, wishing that just once, maybe they could get a hunt in a warm, enjoyable climate. There outta be plenty of work for them down in New Orleans around Mardi Gras…he stopped to sneeze, rubbing a hand under his runny nose, and that's when he saw it.

A track. Good Lord, it was a track, a full track—Dean was too far left to see it, and Sam had nearly missed it himself. It was a cat print alright, and a big one. Sam could fit his boot fully inside of it without marring any edges, the toe of his boot not even reaching the flexible toe pads of the cat's print. He bent down to examine it closer; tried to find more tracks in the surrounding area.

There weren't any. The question was, then, what was a single paw print doing here by itself?

Dean winced as his brother's sneeze cracked through the air. Man, that _had _to have hurt. He turned around to crack a joke about it (allergic to snow, Sammy—or were you trying to blow your damn sasquatch head off _again?) _but panicked when he couldn't see his brother. Snow was falling swiftly, and the wind drove icy flakes into his eyes, ears, and neck, but it wasn't white-out weather yet; he should be able to see the six and a half foot gigantor from twenty feet away.

"Sam?" he called tentatively. When his only answer was another gust of wind in the face, Dean brought his shotgun to his hip, keeping his eyes peeled for anything abnormal in this winter wonder-hell.

"Sammy!" He called again, panic that he would later deny lacing the only name that came out of his mouth more than a few times; save for maybe Bobby's.

"SAMM—"

A snowy, shaggy head popped into Dean's vision, complete with the classic Sammy "busted" expression. Relief flooded through Dean's body, but he kept his face neutral, letting just a hint of annoyance seep into existence.

"Sammy, don't you EVER—"

"Found a track, Dean!" Sam quickly interrupted him.

And he'd be damned, but just like that, the anger dissipated from Dean's body, to be replaced by curiosity and a not-too-small sense of pride at his little brother's accomplishment. Yes, more often than he'd like to admit, Dean felt that Sam was just as much a son to him as he was a brother.

"What kinda—hoooly crap, Sam!" Dean said as he joined his brother on the snowy ground.

"That is one _ freaking big _paw." Sam added.

"Yeah, and I thought yours was big." Dean snarked with a smirk as he calculated the size of the print in his mind. "Find any others?"

"No, not a thing."

"Just this one?" Dean asked skeptically.

"Yeah."

"Huh. Weird."

"Dean?"

"Yeah." He answered distractedly, still searching the area for more tracks.

"If Nightcrawler can go, you know, that fast—why would he, just to land less than a mile away?"

"I dunno, dude…maybe—"

Sam did a double take and trotted after the older hunter, who had suddenly taken off at a sprint. "Dean!"

Dean didn't answer, he just bent down again, surveying a trampled patch of snow. "I think our kitty would make one hell of a basketball player, man."

"What?" Sam spluttered. "Dean—really?"

Dean shook his head, grinned in what might have been admiration. "It didn't fly away, Sam…I think…I think it _ jumped_."

"Run that by me again."

Dean stood, shrugged. "It wasn't flying away man. It jumped away to avoid my gunfire."

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "And Cason? Why'd it take the judge?"

"I dunno Sammy—I'm workin' on it."

"Uh-huh." Sam scoffed. "Dean code for "I have no freakin' idea."

"Read me like a book."

A/N

Sorry it took me so long to update, guys. I've been freaking busy—I finally moved, have been looking for jobs…anyways, I hope you guys liked it, and thanks to everybody who's still reading.

-Lex


End file.
